


The Inevitability of Time

by dhampir72



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhampir72/pseuds/dhampir72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they meet for the first time at the National Gallery, Bond has a strange sense of deja vu. </p><p> </p><p>For the 00QNewYearParty as a gift for missMHO.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missMHO](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missMHO/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Неумолимое течение времени](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5839765) by [little_lionheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_lionheart/pseuds/little_lionheart)



 

* * *

  
Prologue

* * *

 

When they meet for the first time at the National Gallery, Bond has a strange sense of deja vu.

He is sitting in front of _The Fighting Temeraire_ and thinking that this is one of the worse places to conduct clandestine introductions when a boy sits down on the bench next to him and begins speaking about the inevitability of time. His voice is soft and has a poetic quality to it, as if he spent the entirety of his school years learning to read Shakespeare's works in perfect iambic pentameter. The syllables are fluid, like the words are a melody of a long-forgotten song. Bond feels something in his chest and wonders what exactly it is he cannot remember.

"What do you see?"

When Bond looks at him, he can only think that the boy is far too young to be MI6's new Quartermaster. But there is something about him that makes him seem wise beyond his years. Bond cannot quite put his finger on what it is, wondering if it's his wit and audacity, or the deceptively strong, warm grip of his handshake. But maybe it is in the way he says _007_ with nothing but familiarity, as if they've known each other their entire lives.

That feeling lingers and Bond thinks that they must have met before, even just in passing on a bus or train or plane, because he _knows_ this boy.

"Have we met before?" Bond asks, and his Quartermaster smiles like he has a secret.

"No, I don't believe so," he says, "but I've been told I have one of those faces."

But that is the thing: he does not have one of those faces. Bond is familiar with those kinds of faces, the ordinary ones that can blend into a crowd in almost any country in the world. The boy beside him is the complete opposite, because he is striking in a way that is not quite beautiful, but unconventional, _memorable_. Bond tries to remember when and where their paths have crossed, but he cannot. The boy- _Q_ -smiles again: all lip, no teeth, just a quirk of his lips, and it's not quite dangerous, but definitely not harmless. Bond feels a pull of something like arousal in his belly and thinks that he might be in trouble.

As Q presents him with his identifying paperwork, Bond takes in details with a calculating eye. The planes of Q's face are pleasing, symmetrical, and Bond can only think in terms of architecture to describe him, because he is comprised of nothing but lines and angles. In fact, the only softness to him is the soft curl of his fringe over his forehead and the curve of his lips. Bond is staring and knows it, but cannot manage to look away, even when Q meets his eyes. They are a striking shade of grey-green behind his glasses. It makes Bond think of the colours used in the painting upon the wall, characterising the way the water in the Thames sometimes appears on early winter mornings.

Bond does not know why it makes him think of eternity.

He brushes it off as sentimentality-a common characteristic of the aged and ageing-and watches Q leave.

"Brave new world."


	2. Part I

" _...humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves."_  


-Plato, _The Symposium_  


* * *

Part I, Act I

* * *

Skyfall burns to the ground and M is dead.

There is a procession, a funeral, and then a bone-deep sort of silence that falls over everything afterward. It pervades MI6 in the weeks that follow, only punctuated by the glances and whispers of colleagues and once-acquaintances: angry, accusatory words that only solidify the guilt in Bond's mind. He can hear them even when he returns to the privacy of his own flat, where the walls are light grey and bare and all of his things are still in boxes. The place smells of fresh paint and plaster dust and rain, because it has not stopped raining since she died. It makes him want to punch holes in the walls, but instead he sits in the dark and drinks and listens to traffic. The world is turning and people are moving, but Bond can only sit and look at that ugly old bulldog and think about how badly he failed her.

Bond does not want to admit that he feels lost without M. She was the one who brought him into the Double-Oh Programme, who had guided and screamed at him and ordered him dead. She also probably loved him in the same strange sort of way he loved her, which just makes it harder when he thinks about it long enough. With her death, there is a very real hole in him, much like the one Vesper left behind, and Bond tries to fill it with missions and violence and alcohol and fucking. But nothing seems to work, not permanently, and the hole does not go away. It just widens and widens and widens each day. It makes him feel tired in a way that has nothing to do with age and everything to do with a life where there is nothing but ugliness because all of the good things die too fast and too soon.

So he takes mission after mission and picks up his gun and aims and shoots.

It's the only thing he's any good for now.

* * *

Part I, Act II

* * *

With M dead, MI6 feels somehow devoid of humanity.

Even though M could be a right bitch most of the time, she breathed life into the organisation like no one else, because she had a passion like no one else to prove everyone wrong and to get shit done. She was fire and poison and ice, but she did it all for Queen and Country. Bond respected her for that-still respected her even after she had him shot off a bloody bridge, still respects her even now that she's gone-and that is why it feels empty and wrong without her. The new M is not even close to touching her legacy. Mallory might not be a complete politician and can hold his own in a firefight, but he is not her and Bond will not call him M.

M was M and M will always be M in Bond's mind and no one can replace her.

So Bond goes through the motions. He was in the Navy; he knows how to show respect without actually giving it. And Bond knows that Mallory knows what he's doing, but he never calls him on it, not like M would, and maybe that is another reason why he doesn't respect him.

The new regime does not completely take over all at once. It happens in increments and every time Bond returns from one corner of the godforsaken planet or another, a few things are different, but in a manageable sort of way. Different forms, different debriefing procedures, more frequent use of the intranet, protocol for tagging weaponry and using it within the building, upgraded security badges, the list goes on and on. It irks Bond, even more so because it seems like no one else is bothered by all the changes. He wonders if it is just because he is an old warship who just cannot take new direction. He finds it hateful and believes that M is probably rolling over in her grave and so sometimes he goes out to the headstone and smokes a cigarette or three and remembers her. But he never brings flowers, because M would have hated that enough to send Bond off to Siberia for two months as punishment for going soft. The thought of it makes him laugh, but only when no one is watching.

Around him, the world is still moving and changing and it makes Bond feel dizzy and isolated, because it's like no one else notices or cares about what happened. He is struck by the thought that maybe he feels this way because M was the closest thing he had to a mother, to a friend.

That is not to say that Bond did not have friends before, or as close to the civilian definition of _friends_ , anyway. After all, he and Tanner had always got on and while his relationship with Moneypenny was, and still is, a bit fucked up because of the whole _take-the-bloody-shot_ business, they sometimes go out for coffee and talk about things that are not the weather or work, which is more than Bond does with anyone else at Six, which has to count for something. So Bond has more fingers on one hand than he does friends and there is a saying about that, though hell if he can remember what it is.

Then there is Q.

Bond cannot say for sure when his Quartermaster became more of a friend than not. He thinks about their first meeting and wonders if it had been then, when the boy had looked at him and smiled like he had a secret and all but challenged him with that voice that sounded like pure poetry. And then Bond wonders if it was the way Q trusted him after Silva escaped and helped him without question, even if that meant jeopardising his newly-acquired position. But perhaps it had been right after the events at Skyfall and M's death, when everyone else had been walking on eggshells around him and whispering cruel things behind his back when they thought he could not hear. Q was the only one who looked him right in the eyes when they spoke and who did not pity him. Instead, he had said _I'm sorry about your car_ and made Bond laugh for the first time since that night in Scotland.

And Bond is drawn to him, to his peculiar angles and smiles and those eyes that make Bond think about storms and ocean waves and snow.

While MI6 is in transition, Q becomes a strange sort of comfort that feels as natural and familiar. Their relationship becomes ones of give and take, an ebb and flow, a perfect tempo and rhythm to a song Bond cannot remember ever hearing, but to which instinctively knows how to dance. And while Bond trusts Q more than anyone, the Quartermaster remains a mystery to him. He does not know his name or background or how he had been chosen for the position. His files are encrypted and inaccessible and the one time Bond asked, Q had just smiled that secretive smile and sent him on his way. Q is an enigma and he is still not-quite-beautiful, but Bond is intrigued regardless, just like he had been the day they met at the National Gallery.

Bond thinks that he might want Q in his bed, just for one night, just to take him apart and see what lies beneath everything. But then Bond realises how wrong it would be, because Q has his respect and his trust and is not a conquest. So, he flirts because that is what he is good at and breaks things just because he can and tries not to think about Q while lying in foreign hotel rooms across the globe.

He sometimes finds himself dreaming about grey-green eyes and pink lips and red, red flowers.

* * *

Part I, Act III

* * *

It is a Thursday during the first few weeks of spring when Bond runs into Q outside of the executive offices.

"Q," Bond says in greeting.

"007, welcome back," Q replies. He is the only one who ever sounds pleased when Bond returns. Unless there is broken equipment involved, of course. "I do hope you brought the car back in one piece."

Bond holds up the key hob in reply.

"Please don't tell me that's all that's left of it."

"Do you think so little of me?"

Q gives him a bored look and holds out his hand. Bond drops the key into his palm obediently.

"Thank you," he says, and continues on his way. Bond follows, catching up with him so that they are walking side-by-side. Q spares him half a glance and does not even look the slightest bit curious. "Don't you have debrief with Mallory?"

"Can't I visit with my favourite Quartermaster?" Bond asks, injecting a wounded tone into his voice.

"I'm your only Quartermaster. No one else will take you because you're too much trouble," Q replies dryly, though Bond can see that the compliment has hit its mark; the tips of his ears are red.

"Be honest, Q. You'd be bored to tears without me," Bond says.

"I suppose so," Q allows, as he pushes the button to call the lift. "Though I might actually fall in budget if you weren't my responsibility."

"You love it," Bond says, grinning. He watches as Q turns his head away from him, but he still catches the glimpse of a smile and something that Bond thinks might be the word _incorrigible_ under his breath. The doors open and they step inside. Bond selects their desired floor. As the doors are closing, Q turns to him, fixes those grey eyes on him and asks:

"Would you like to go to dinner with me?"

He asks it with his usual tone: that confident, lyrical way of speaking that is uniquely Q and no one else. For once, Bond does not know what to say, because as much as he is curious, he knows it is a bad idea. Bond usually makes it a rule of thumb to keep his affairs within MI6 limited to the staff that he does not interact with on a daily basis, just to avoid awkwardness. And even though he wants Q in a way that might be sexual, Bond is not entirely sure if it is, because he still cannot help but think that his Quartermaster is nothing more than sharp angles and lines and bones, and that there is certainly nothing attractive about him despite the fact that something _is_. Bond feels compelled and he wants, but he's not quite sure why.

"I don't think...that's a good idea," Bond says eventually.

"Why not?" Q asks, and does not sound offended, just curious.

"It just isn't," Bond says.

"Is it because I'm a man?"

Bond is not a stranger to sex-it is hard to be anything but _intimately familiar_ with it in his line of work-and he has had his fair share of affairs both on the clock and off with men and women. Although he has a preference for the fairer sex, Bond can appreciate men all the same, though he is much more selective when choosing a male partner. Q is not someone he would have looked twice at, but Bond did and somehow keeps looking. It must have everything to do with Q's alluring voice and his storm-grey eyes and his pale fingers; Q is Bond's exception. That has to be it, because Q is definitely not his type, and yet, he is constantly infiltrating his thoughts at every turn and making Bond _want_ in a way that very few people have made him yearn before. That's when Bond realises how dangerous it is, because Vesper had been that way, too, and people like her and Q were the types who ruined people like Bond.

"No."

Q studies him a moment, and then something clears in his expression, as if he just stumbled across the answer to a troublesome problem.

"Is it because we work together?" he asks.

"Yes," Bond says, because it's easier than saying everything else.

"It's just dinner," Q says.

"It's never _just dinner_ ," Bond replies.

Q cocks his head to the side.

"Well, you're right. I was hoping to have sex with you after."

Bond does not know how to control his expression at that confession, though he's pretty sure that he manages something akin to stoicism. Inside, however, he's reeling. After all, Bond is used to the world of professional espionage, where people wear masks atop of masks and do nothing but utter lies and half-truths. Because of this, he cannot react with his usual finesse, and he only manages to get one utterance out of his suddenly-dry throat.

"Oh."

Q raises an eyebrow at his response.

"I'm sorry," he says and sounds it. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't," Bond says, lies. He does not know what to make of Q and does not know what he wants from him. The thought of bringing him to bed is intoxicating in a way that does not make sense, but Bond has enough of it to know that it is not a good idea.

"Good," Q says, as the lift begins to slow. "I hope this won't interfere with our working relationship."

"No," Bond says, as the doors open.

"Good," Q says again, and steps out, not even looking back at Bond as he adds: "Until next time, 007."

Bond feels a tug, like he is supposed to follow, but he does not.

Instead, he takes the lift back up to the executive offices and debriefs. After that, he bypasses Q-Branch and goes back to his flat, where he showers, shaves, and dresses impeccably. He then goes to one of the classier bars he sometimes frequents when he is back on English soil and drinks until he finds a suitable partner. She has dark hair and green eyes and kisses like a punch to the mouth. It is enough to make Bond forget the feeling of regret in his gut, like he had missed out on something incredibly important.

They go back to her place and the sex is good and distracting. But even the sight of her under him is not not as satisfactory as he thought, not when he finally acknowledges that she looks too much like Q, but isn't him at all. It is only afterward that Bond finds himself wishing he had accepted Q's offer, though he hates himself because he does not know why. Q is definitely not beautiful, but Q makes him laugh and challenges him and is not afraid to dress him down for insubordination and Bond _respects_ him so much that it's maddening. He wants Q, yes, but not _just_ physically and that realisation is a little bit more than he wants to confront at that moment.

As he leaves the woman's flat for his car, reeking of sex and alcohol, he can only think that it's better he did not accept, because Bond's a cruel, self-centred man, and that will never change.

* * *

Part I, Act IV

* * *

The next time he sees Q, it is at work.

They both happen to be walking down the same corridor in opposite directions, but Q is looking down at a tablet and not paying any mind to the world around him. It is cowardly, but Bond thinks about dashing into the nearest office to hide. Instead, he continues walking. They are just about to pass by one another when Q glances up and holds Bond with a stare. His eyes are dark grey, like ocean skies before a storm, like brushed steel, and Bond knows that if he were a lesser person, he might have flinched.

"Oh, good, 007, just who I needed to see," Q says, his voice and expression nothing but professional. "Mallory needs you in his office. You're off to Borneo this afternoon. Stop by the branch for your kit after you've been briefed."

Q does not give him a chance to say anything. He gives the information and then is gone just as quickly. Again, Bond feels that tug, hard from under his ribs, telling him to follow, but he goes to his meeting with Mallory instead. Afterward, he takes up the folder with his assignment and hops the lift down to Q-Branch. One of the minions directs him to R, who has his kit prepared. She is just lecturing him on the proper use of one gadget or another when Bond interrupts her.

"Where's Q?"

"Busy," R says shortly, and continues on with her explanation.

Once she gives up the kit, Bond goes straight to Q's office. The door is closed, but not locked, and Bond goes inside.

It is empty.

Bond feels annoyed, suddenly, at Q's absence. Where else would he be? Bond stands at the threshold and taps the folder with his boarding passes against his thigh, debating how to proceed. It is hard when he himself does not know exactly what he wants or why he wants it.

He comes into the office and walks about the small space. There is a desk with two computer monitors, a drafting table, a few filing cabinets, and one large window, which overlooks the bullpen. It is kept as neat and tidy as a Quartermaster can manage, especially after the merger of TSS and R&D under the same division. Bond sees at least six different projects laid out and the paperwork for a good dozen more on the drafting table alone. The majority of projects in their design phases are for the Double-Oh Programme. Bond recognises the designating number from R&D at the top of a nearby pile. Bond snoops a bit more, moving from the table to Q's desk. The area is clean and there are specific incoming and outgoing trays with heaps of paperwork in both. At the far end, there is an anti-static mat with what appears to be the remains of a mobile phone. Tools lay neatly in a multi-pocketed sheath nearby. But what Bond notices immediately is that there is very little personality to the space. There are no photographs or personal effects, save for Q's Scrabble mug sitting just to the left of the keyboard.

And then, he sees it: a book hiding beneath a thick A/R report.

Bond slides it out from under the report and picks it up. It has a tatted red cover and spine and the pages are yellow-brown with age. It smells old when Bond brings it closer to read the title: _The Symposium_ by Plato. Bond feels his eyebrows raise, because Q does not seem the type to read hard copy books, let alone one on Ancient Grecian philosophy. He is just about to investigate the contents when he hears Q approaching.

The other man seems only barely-surprised to see him.

"Please do not touch my things," he says primly, and Bond puts down the book atop the report. Q walks around him to the other side of his desk, drops the folders and tablet he had been carrying and then sits down in front of his computer. He reaches for his tea and then looks at Bond.

"Is there anything else you need? Or did you just come to bother me?" he asks. His eyes are piercing and unyielding and Bond feels ashamed for some reason. He looks down at the desk, at the book that rests between them.

" _The Symposium_ ," he says.

"Yes, what of it?" Q asks.

"Nothing, just doesn't seem like your cup of tea," Bond replies.

"Do you know what it's about?" Q asks, with something like a challenge in his voice, in the small smirk upon his lips. Bond imagines kissing him and wonders what he tastes like.

"I don't have to. Definitely not what I expected, Quartermaster."

"You'd be surprised to know that I do have varied tastes, 007."

There is something in his words that Bond can easily translate, but he does not. Instead, Bond picks up the book and flips through it. There are pencil marks under some pages, as if the copy has been well-used and often consulted.

"Is it any good?"

Q gives him a look.

"I don't think it's your cup of tea," he says, but the challenge is there again.

"Would you mind if I borrowed it? For the plane ride?" Bond asks.

It seems that Q might deny him, but then his expression softens just a bit and he nods once.

"Yes, but please try to bring it back. I do love this copy," Q says.

"Don't you have a digital one?" Bond asks, as he tucks the book under his arm.

Something almost wistful graces Q's expression, softening the sharp angles of his face so that he looks human and touchable for the first time that Bond can remember. It lasts the span of a second, and then it is gone, like throwing a shutter up on a bright day to cast a room back into darkness.

"It's not the same," Q says, and then looks at Bond with something like amusement. "But then again, I always have had a soft spot for relics of a more traditional age."

Bond knows that it is aimed at him, but not as a barb, and Q is smiling that secretive smile that has slowly been driving Bond mad.

"I'll make sure to bring it back," Bond says, because for a second time, Q has left him unable to form a witty reply.

"Good," Q says, looking at his computer. "Now, go, before you miss your flight."

Bond turns to leave and is just about out the door when he hears Q add:

"And try not to die, Bond."

"Why? Would you miss me?" Bond asks, and tries to get a good look at Q, but he's hiding behind his monitor.

"Just hoping that you'll spare me the paperwork, 007."

"Of course, Quartermaster."

* * *

Part I, Act V

* * *

Bond completes the mission in record time and without even coming close to dying. It's rather uneventful, and, if Bond is completely honest, dreadfully boring. At the end of it, he debates staying the extra night at the hotel so that he can find a lonely married woman to take to bed, because it's big enough for three and it is a shame to have it all to himself. But then Bond decides to go on standby for the next flight back to London and sits at the airport with the stupid red book that's been in his carry-on since he arrived. On the flight over, he had been too busy reading about his target and his cover identity to pick up the volume and now its weighing heavily on his shoulder and his mind. He stops at one of the terminal cafes, where he drinks weak coffee and picks at a bland pastry as he opens the book and begins to read.

It is definitely not his cup of tea.

Although Bond is by no means stupid, the language is a bit difficult to understand. He forces his way through the first few pages, taking note of where Q has underlined certain passages or dog-eared the corners. There are no notes in the margins, but seeing where Q has bracketed some parts and put asterisks in others somehow serves as a sort of guidance. The language slowly becomes more familiar, as if Bond can hear a rhythm in his head, but not in English, like the translation before him, but something else entirely. He hears a nonexistent, but distinct roll of waves and smells the salt of the sea mixed with something sweet, like fruits, like oranges, and tastes them on his tongue.

Bond stops and looks at his coffee accusingly, and the spell is broken. The words become a bit more difficult, and Bond has to focus on recapturing that flow from before. He reads slowly, savouring the words, reading again and again the underlined passages, trying to understand why Q loves the work so much. And then he finds a circled paragraph which reads:

" _...humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves..."_

It resonates somewhere inside of him, like a half-remembered dream, and Bond grasps for its meaning, but falls just short of touching it.

The PA system blares overhead, distracting him fully as it announces his flight. It calls for passengers to assemble at the gate, so Bond packs his things, bins his rubbish, and goes to wait. There is an open seat-not first class, but Bond cannot argue-and he takes it. When the wheels pull up and has a drink in his right hand and they are forty-thousand feet in the air, Bond takes out the book again. He reads without struggle, taking the encomiums to Eros about love between men and the beauty and pain of it. His fingers trace over the underlined words, following worn paths where a thumb has passed over the page again and again on specific passages. Bond imagines Q holding the book in his hand, caressing the text like a lover and wonders what it would be like to have Q touch him that way.

It's wrong, he tells himself, blaming the book and his already confused jumble of feelings. He should stop, because he and Q will never work, because Bond is selfish and cruel and will ultimately destroy everything. But then Bond envisions Q spread out on the smooth sheets of his bed, smiling that secretive smile and imagining kissing those soft lips makes him tremble like no other partner has made him tremble before.

His mouth is dry. He orders another drink and puts the book away and pretends to sleep for the rest of the flight.

He doesn't.

* * *

Part I, Act VI

* * *

It is evening when he arrives in London and far, far past normal business hours, but Bond goes to MI6 anyway, because he knows that Q will be there.

When he arrives, the place is quiet as a tomb and dark, with only the emergency lights up to keep the night crew company. The few souls about are dull-eyed and tired and do not look at Bond as he makes his way to Q-Branch. The techs do not even glance up when he enters, walks past them on the floor, and goes straight to Q's office. His Quartermaster is, as he predicted, at his desk, working on something with intense concentration. The only light in the room is from the table lamp, a modern thing that puts out a contradictory low lumen glow.

"Welcome back, 007," he says, not pausing in his typing. "You're earlier than expected."

"It's better than being late."

"Or bleeding and near death. I do hope that this will be a recurring trend. It's always good to have you back in one piece."

Bond remembers the words from the book, about how humans were originally one being and then split into two separate bodies, separate pieces, and there's something like ash on his tongue at the thought of it. He wonders why, because he's never thought about such things before, about how people are stumbling around and searching, always searching for the person that makes them complete. What if that person is already gone? Or the two people never meet? Or they do meet and then one of them dies? Then what? What is it all for? Bond frowns at himself. It's not like him to think like this. It's rubbish, all the philosophy and the poetic odes to love and devotion and the entire business of soulmates. Bond pulls the book from his luggage bag and places it down on the desk where he had found it a week prior.

"How did you like it?" Q asks.

"It was intriguing," Bond says.

"Is that a nice way of saying you didn't like it?" Q asks. Bond cannot see his eyes, only the reflection of the light of his screen upon the lenses of his glasses.

"No, it means that I thought it was intriguing," Bond says.

"Why is that?"

"It's about love."

"Do you not believe in love?"

Q asks it like they are discussing the weather.

"Not really," Bond says, and suddenly feels uncomfortable with the course of conversation. And yet something compels him to ask: "Do you?"

"Yes."

"You're a romantic."

"You could say that."

"I have to say, I didn't expect it."

"No," Q says, and smiles a small smile. "You wouldn't, would you?"

It's not a question.

"It's getting late," Q says, after a lull, and begins to click at a few things on his computer. "We should both go home."

"To yours or mine?" Bond asks, before he can think about what he's saying. Q gives him a hard look as he stands up from his chair.

"Don't be cruel," he says coldly, and begins packing up his belongings.

"I'm not," Bond replies.

"You are. And if you ever think to do it again, I'll have you reassigned to another handler," Q says. For the first time, Bond cannot hear poetry in his voice, only hurt, and it is then that he realises how badly he has wounded Q with his rejection, then his shallow flirting. It pulls something tight, taut across his heart.

"I'm not," Bond says again, with nothing but gentleness and honesty. "Let's have dinner."

Q pulls on his coat and slings his bag over his shoulder, walking round the side of his desk so that they are standing with nothing between them. Then he looks up at Bond through his lashes and his eyes are beautifully dark.

"I'm not hungry," he says, and there are all sorts of implications in his tone. Bond leans in and watches as the last vestiges of grey are engulfed by his pupils.

"Neither am I," Bond says, and kisses him.

And never in all his life did something feel so _perfect_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you see any glaring errors. BETAing this myself, so I don't always see my own mistakes. Thanks everyone xx


	3. Interlude I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porn ahead~

 

* * *

Interlude

* * *

They go to Q's flat because it's closer and take a taxi because it's quicker and Bond wants nothing more than to get them both out of their clothes and into bed as soon as humanly possible. The night is cool and raining and the steps are slippery just outside of Q's building. Q nearly slips, but Bond steadies him by putting his hands on his hips. They are narrow and perfect under his palms and Bond cannot resist digging his fingers in, curling the tips hard into the wool of Q's trousers. He does not miss the stuttered breath that escapes Q as he fiddles with the door key and Bond likes it so much that he presses in a bit harder, until Q gasps. He drops kisses along the shell of Q's ear as they fumble down the hallway to the lifts, and they stay intertwined for the entire journey to the top floor.

Q barely disengages his rather formidable-looking door before Bond all but pushes him inside and presses him against it. The door locks automatically with a hiss, but Bond is too focused on kissing Q and getting them out of their coats that he does not pay it much mind. Q drops his bag carelessly and the two of them toe out of their shoes one at a time as they escape the foyer.

Bond takes in nothing about the flat, intent on following Q's lips to the bedroom. The room is small, dominated by the queen-sized mattress, and the curtains are open to let in the light of the city beyond the windows. It's probably dangerous, but Q pulls him down onto the bed with an insistent kiss and Bond forgets all about his concerns regarding snipers. He is too busy divesting Q of his cardigan and shirt, carelessly throwing both onto the floor. Q huffs against his mouth, as if annoyed at the treatment of his clothes, but Bond does not pull away to let him vocalise his displeasure, and goes so far as to remove his glasses and toss them onto the nightstand. Q's tongue tastes like tea and oranges and it somehow makes Bond think about soulmates again, a niggling thought at the back of his mind that will not go away. He moves back and slides his hands down Q's body to focus on something else. He commits the feel of Q to memory: the way his breath hitches when Bond caresses his fingers over his chest, brushes over his nipples, then drags them down over his ribs. Just as Bond had thought, Q is nothing but lines and bones beneath soft, pale planes of skin, but he is captivated all the same.

Panting, Q looks up at him through half-lidded eyes. Even in the dark, Bond can see his lips are deliciously red. Bond reclaims them again, feeling something in his spine tingle at the low keen Q makes when they press their hips together.

"How long have you wanted this?" Bond asks, as he kisses his way drown Q's throat. Q tips his head back and laughs as his fingers deftly begin undoing the buttons of Bond's shirt, until he's pushing the fabric down over Bond's arms.

"Forever," Q says, and the way he says _forever_ is like a sigh, as if he has been waiting an eternity for this one moment.

"I'll make it worth the wait," Bond promises, and gently bites at the place where his neck and shoulder meet. Q arches under him like a bow, and its so beautiful that Bond cannot help but move his arm around Q's waist to hold him in that position.

"I'm counting on it," Q says, and Bond feels the light touch of his fingers as they move down his sides toward his hips. Bond grins and eases Q back down onto the duvet so that he can begin kissing his way downward. He revels in the sounds Q makes and the way gooseflesh rises on his skin with each caress. Bond feels intoxicated that he is doing this to Q of all people, who is actually quite beautiful now that Bond is really _looking_. And he is definitely looking closely as he undoes the button and flies of Q's trousers.

That is when he sees it.

"You have a tattoo," Bond says, pausing in his expedition to drag his fingers over the mark. It extends from just under Q's ribs to the curve of his right pelvic bone. It is not done in dark ink, but something light, like red or purple or pink, Bond cannot say for certain without better light. The design is some sort of flora: beautiful and sprawling, detailed to the point that just looking at it, Bond can almost feel the silken texture of leaves and petals.

"What is it?" he asks and Q props himself up on his elbows to look down at Bond. His hair is a riot of curls and his eyes are gorgeous, midnight dark.

"It's an amaranth," Q says, as Bond traces the flowers upon his hipbone. "It's a flower that was said to have grown on Mount Olympus. And like the immortal Gods, it would never wither or die."

"An amaranth," Bond murmurs the familiar word into Q's skin. He wonders why he knows it and why it seems to make him feel an indescribable sadness.

"James," Q says, like he knows what Bond is thinking, _feeling_ , and it's almost too much to be known by Q like that, even more intimate than sex.

"You've never called me that before," Bond says, and then kisses at raised lines of magenta ink. Q makes a sound deep in his throat at the attention, at the light drag of stubble over his skin.

"I think the situation warrants it," Q replies, and his fingers come up to Bond's short hair to caress through it. The comforting gesture makes Bond's heart crawl into his throat, but he does not know why. "Unless you'd rather me call you 007?"

"No. James is perfect," Bond replies, and laps his tongue at the petite indent of Q's navel. Q's fingers curl in his hair and tug at the strands. "What should I call you?"

"Q," he says.

"But that's not your real name," Bond says, brushing his cheek against the fine trail of hair above Q's waistband. Q sighs in delight at the feeling and the sound of it goes right to Bond's cock.

"No, but I like it more than my real name," Q replies.

"Tell me," Bond implores, as he hooks his thumbs into Q's belt loops. Q smiles that mysterious smile of his. Even stripped down to almost nothing, Q is not even close to being revealed.

"Later," he promises, and cants his hips towards Bond. He takes that as a hint and pulls Q's trousers and pants down. Just like the rest of him, Q's cock is long and thin, curving toward his belly, and when Bond takes him in hand, Q fits into his palm perfectly. Bond strokes him slowly, watching as Q trembles and falls back against the duvet, unable to keep himself up of his own strength. He makes a sweet sound that makes Bond's mouth go dry and he suddenly wants nothing more than to taste Q. But they never had that sort of conversation, and Bond does not want to overstep, so he nips at the sensitive skin of Q's inner thigh and asks:

"Condom?"

"I'm clean," Q says, immediately catching onto Bond's train of thought, "but if you want…"

"What do _you_ want?" Bond asks, cradling Q's prick in his hand as he drags his tongue along the underside of his shaft. Q whines and grips at his shoulders, little half-moons of prickling pain from where his nails dig into Bond's flesh.

"You," Q replies, and when Bond looks up, he meets Q's dark gaze. "Your hands, your mouth. You, inside of me."

There is something about the way Q says it that steals his breath, and Bond wants nothing more than to give him everything he asked for. It goes above and beyond anything Bond has ever felt with a partner and it leaves him flushed and so very hard against his the placket of his trousers. Q must understand this, because he's smiling again as he raises himself up to a sitting position. He kisses Bond fully, but there is no rush in it, like he is content with a slow exploration of hands and mouths and tongues, at odds with the way they started, and certainly at odds with the way Bond is familiar. But it's nice, because when Bond thinks about it, sex is for work or for release and rarely for the simple pleasure. It is a means to an end, for information, for something to kick the vestiges of his adrenaline, but rarely for the sake of engaging because he needed to be close to someone. There was always too much trust involved-trust Bond was not willing to give-but somehow things are different with Q, whom he trusts without a second thought and with whom he feels _complete_ without knowing how.

"Well, what do you think?" Q asks, pulling away only so there is a space of a breath between him. Q's fingers work quickly, divest Bond completely of his shirt, his belt following shortly thereafter.

"I think I must be mad," Bond says against his mouth, groaning softly when Q undoes the top button of his trousers, then opens the flies.

"Mm, good. Being sane is overrated," Q replies, and nips at his lips. Bond laughs, and knows it has been far too long since a lover has legitimately made him feel so at ease. He falls back onto the bed, pulling Q down on top of him, and the other man makes a pleased sound at the change of position. Q adjusts himself to straddle Bond and then his mouth and hands are all over him, fingers caressing, pinching, scratching in just the right way, in all the right places. If Bond did not know any different, he might believe that he and Q have done this before, because the other man seems to know every single thing about him.

"Q…" Bond breathes, as Q strips him the rest of the way so there is nothing between them but skin. Q shifts down along his body until his pretty mouth is on Bond's cock. The heat of his mouth and tongue is delicious; Bond cannot help but move his hands to Q's hair, burying his fingers in the thick curls, which he tugs at gently in encouragement. Q groans around him and the vibrations take root in Bond's spine, tingling all the way up to his ribs and down to his toes. He grips a bit harder and Q looks up at him. His lips are red, stretched wide around Bond's girth. With an obscene sound, Q releases him, then laps at the head of his prick, smearing spit and precome at the crown.

Wordlessly, Bond pulls Q up to kiss him; he tastes himself on Q's tongue. Between their bodies, Bond feels Q's cock press insistently against his and decides that it is time to move things along. The thought of being inside of Q is borderline maddening, and when Bond puts Q under him and whispers in his ear, his voice is rough with lust.

"Lube?"

Q gestures to the bedside table, too busy sucking little marks onto Bond's chest to answer verbally. The pleasurable bit of pain almost distracts Bond from his mission, but only just, and he blindly yanks the cabinet door open to root around for the item in question. Bond finds a strip of condoms first, then a bottle of lubricant, and he drops both onto the bed beside them.

The first slick finger meets barely any resistance; Q rocks against it with shuddering little motions that Bond can feel all the way to his elbow. He kisses and nips at Q's belly and traces the tattoo's raised lines with his tongue until Q makes a frustrated sound and Bond gives him what he wants. The second finger makes something cut short in Q's breaths, like pain, and Bond slows the motion with his hand considerably when he sees his erection beginning to flag.

"Alright?" Bond asks, lips brushing over the petals on Q's hip.

"Fine-ah!" Q replies, gasping softly when Bond begins to stretch him a bit more. "It's just...been a long time…"

"Tell me if-"

"You're fine," Q interrupts him, and slides his fingers into Bond's hair. "Please, keep going."

Bond does, but takes extra care to ensure that he does it properly. It is only when Q is half-hard again and rocking against three of his fingers that Bond knows he is ready. He grabs a pillow from near the headboard and tucks it under Q's lower back; Q immediately hooks his legs around Bond's waist and pulls him closer.

"Eager, aren't you?" Bond asks, grinning as he rolls on a condom and slicks it adequately.

"You have no idea," Q says, digging his heels into Bond's buttocks. "Now stop talking and get in me."

"Bossy thing," Bond says, and it's with nothing but fondness, he realises a second too late. Q just smirks at him and grips tightly at Bond's sides with his thighs. In response, Bond presses the tip of his cock at Q's entrance and slowly breaches him. Immediately, Q tenses, and Bond leans over, reminding him in between kisses to _relax_. Q looks at him, and in the half light, he appears very young and vulnerable, so much so that if Bond did not know any better, he might say that this is Q's first time.

"Relax," Bond tells him again.

Marginally, Q does, and Bond inches his way inside. By the time Bond is fully sheathed, Q is trembling beneath him. There is moisture at the corners of his eyes and his lashes are wet. It feels like Bond is invading a private moment, because Q is one of those strong, stoic, independent people that he cannot imagine crying, especially in front of someone else. Bond feels a pang of guilt at having caused it, but it is accompanied by something else that he cannot identify right away: some sort of pride at being the one person privy to such a sight. And in a moment of tenderness that he did not think himself capable of, Bond kisses his tears away. Q's arms wind around his shoulders, and in a moment of stillness, they are simply two people in the most intimate of embraces.

"Alright?" Bond asks again, face buried in Q's neck, his lips brushing over the rapid beat of his pulse. Q nods, grips at his hair, and moves his hips against Bond's. The tight heat is stupendous, and Bond bites on his lower lip to keep from thrusting into Q. Instead, he lets the other man set the pace, until he is comfortable with a tempo that is satisfying for both of them. Bond changes the angle a bit, pulls Q up onto his lap so that they are chest to chest, and kisses him. His mouth is hot and sweet and Bond knows exactly how to elicit the most pleasurable sounds out of Q with just the sweep of his tongue and the shift of his hips. It's strangely like a memory instead of action, like they have done this a thousand times before, and Bond cannot say for sure why everything feels as if he had been only half a person until this very moment. The feeling of rightness, completeness is almost overwhelming, and Bond is heady with it, a feeling of lightness in his body and all his senses combined. He wonders if Q feels it too, because the man in his arms arches against Bond with a breathy moan that threatens to make his heart stop beating. He feels connected with Q on a level that he cannot describe, like he may finally be beginning to understand a small fraction of the infinite mystery that comprises Q's very existence.

Q comes without a hand on him and Bond follows almost immediately. They fall into a tangle of limbs atop the duvet, breathing in unison. If Bond believed in such things, he might think their hearts beat in time, but it is a silly notion that he blames on the euphoria still running through his veins. Q pets at his hair, humming sweetly as Bond kisses his neck, leaving small, proprietary marks behind. It takes a while before either of them can move, and it is with something like regret that Bond disentangles himself from Q to get cleaned up. He goes to the ensuite bathroom and bins the condom, then returns to the bedroom with a damp flannel. Q takes it silently and Bond can feel his eyes on him as he begins to pick up his clothes from the floor.

"You don't have to run off," Q says, and even though Bond wants nothing more than to climb back into bed and hold him, he cannot. He does not do that sort of thing; Q should know better than to expect it. Bond only wishes that it did not feel so wrong, like his heart is being slowly crushed at the thought of leaving.

"James," Q says, and Bond looks back to see him sitting up amongst the tangled bedsheets, regarding him with an expression that's guarded to the point that it borders on lonely. "You can stay."

"That's not what this is," Bond says, because Q has to understand.

"I know," Q replies. "But you can stay."

Bond has his trousers in one hand and shirt in the other and he can very easily get dressed in a hurry. But Q understands what he means when he says _that's not what this is_ because even though what they did was more like lovemaking instead of fucking, they both know there is no possible way they can be anything to one another. Bond's lifestyle does not allow it, even if he wants it, he can never keep it. He's conceited and self-destructive and ruins things just by touching them. Q can never be anything more than a good fuck and a warm body, because that's all that Bond can give him, even though he deserves much, much better.

But Q looks at him like he knows, like he is willing to take on such an arrangement despite how degrading it is, like he loves Bond regardless. It's complete faith and trust in him and Bond hates himself for being so cruel, but then again, he never really has been kind.

"Just this time," he says, dropping his clothes back onto the floor. Q scoots over and pulls back the blankets in invitation, which Bond accepts. He lays on his side facing Q, who smiles at him. It's very different from all the times before, because there's no secrecy or mystery in it, just a happiness that softens the greyish green in his eyes, that somehow makes him more beautiful. Just the sight of it makes it feel like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Bond feels his heart skip a few beats, replaced by something light and warm, and he knows he's in trouble because all he wants to do is kiss Q until the sun comes up.

"I'm going to hurt you," Bond says, and he can feel it in his bones that he will undoubtedly make Q cry.

"I know," Q replies against his lips, and kisses him with no remorse.

They at least have a few hours left before daybreak, which gives them some time to pretend like they are two very different people, like Bond can actually love without limits or fear and like there are no secrets behind Q's smile. Q must understand the circumstances and what it all means, because when he slides on top of Bond, there is something soft in his expression, in his dark eyes, and Bond holds onto his hips like he'll fall off the edge of the earth if he lets go.

For the first time in a long time, Bond does not feel empty or lost or lonely, and he never wants to be anywhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not very pleased with this, but it'll have to suffice. As always, please let me know of any mistakes you find. Still BETAing this myself and I don't always catch everything... Love xx


	4. Part II

 

 

 

" _And so, when a person meets the half that is his very own, whatever his orientation, whether it's to young men or not, then something wonderful happens: the two are struck from their senses by love, by a sense of belonging to one another, and by desire, and they don't want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment."_

-Plato, _The Symposium_

* * *

 

Part II, Act I

 

* * *

It may be the longest sort of relationship he's ever been in, Bond realises, when two months pass and he is still unable to resist the draw of Q and his eyes and lips and bed. It's still only about sex; they aren't seen together in close company in public or at Six and they don't go on dates or anything resembling them. They still work together as they had before and still trade insults like it's going out of style, but they can also shut out the rest of the world and spend long stretches of days not getting out of bed. It's not always like the first time; sometimes it is hard and fast and desperate, exactly what Bond needs. Other times, it is quiet and slow, spanning hours instead of minutes. Afterward, Bond always prepares to leave, but Q always asks him to stay, and there's something about the poetry in his voice that makes it impossible for him to do anything but acquiesce. Q never asks for anything else, so if there's one thing Bond can do for him, it is fulfill that one request.

Bond does not know exactly when Q stops asking, and when Bond starts staying anyway.

The warmth of another body breathing next to him is more of a comfort than he ever thought possible, and Bond is particularly infatuated by Q's after shave, the minty scent of his shampoo, the freshness of his laundry detergent in the bed clothes, his cardigans, everything. When they lie under skin-warm sheets together, Bond breathes him in like his lungs have never taken in air. He does not think he has ever felt so close to someone before.

But that does not mean that they don't have their secrets: Bond still has too many skeletons in his closet and drinks too much to be healthy, but he's been cutting back on the alcohol bit by bit as Q starts filling the void. Meanwhile, Q still smiles mysteriously from time to time, but he has become more open in ways that are drastically different from work. In fact, just last week, Bond heard him laugh for the first time-a true laugh-and he was dizzy with the knowledge that he caused it. It inspired Bond to find all of Q's ticklish spots, and he spent one entire Tuesday morning torturing Q until he was gasping in between bouts of laughter.

But Bond does not realise that it means something more until he is sitting at an outdoor cafe in Madrid and suddenly wishes that Q was there with him. It's not about sex or because Bond is lonely, he just thinks it would be nice to be together at that moment, taking in the view and the food and the pulse of the city. The thought is terrifying, because, despite his best efforts, Bond is _feeling_ for Q. He is thinking about what he likes and what makes him happy and the best ways to make him laugh. Bond no longer thinks about sneaking out in the middle of the night and instead looks forward to waking up with Q pressed against him, to the shared shower and breakfast and the openness in Q's expression that is for Bond and no one else. It is not love, Bond tells himself over and over again, because love is for children and people who have never been hurt before.

And even though he's happy, probably the happiest he has been in a long time, Bond decides that he will end it-that he _has_ to-because he cannot let it go on any longer. But the moment he is back on English soil and he sees Q with his grey-green eyes and pink lips and riot of dark, luscious curls, the first words out of his mouth are _let's have dinner_. Q looks at him, surprised, and even closes his door so that the conversation remains private in his office.

"Are you sure?" Q asks, like someone who knows the rules of the game and is concerned about breaking them. The fact that Q is willing to keep on that way hurts Bond in ways that knife wounds and bullet holes never have. He goes to Q and cups his jaw and kisses him in response, because nothing has ever felt more _right_.

"Yes," Bond says, and means it.

Q's smile lights up the room as he says:

"Let me get my coat."

* * *

 

Part II, Act II

 

* * *

He is in India when it happens.

He is just wondering if Q will like the souvenir he picked out for him when there is a twinge of pain in his shoulder, the bad one, where Patrice had shot over half a year ago. It hurts from time to time, but it's manageable, and Bond has grown used to ignoring it, especially when on assignment. But then pain changes from a dull throb to sharp and burning. _That's new_ Bond thinks, as he rubs at it unconsciously while driving through Lucknow's afternoon traffic. For the next hour, Bond tries to put it out of his mind, but the pain gets worse and he slowly begins falling further and further behind his mark until he can't see the coupe anymore. He curses and presses hard at his clavicle; his hand comes away bloody. Years of training quell the urge to panic, but Bond all but rips down the visor to angle the mirror so that he can see his shoulder. There are spots of crimson on his shirt, right above the old wound. Steering around pedestrians, Bond uses his free hand to unbutton the top of his shirt. The skin beneath is angry red and there is a mess of blood around the old scar. He curses again, does up his shirt the best he can, and presses his palm against the wound to try to staunch the bleeding.

He does not manage to catch up with the target, but after checking in briefly with Q-Branch, R assures him that they will have better intel the following day and to wait for her communication. Bond does not ask to speak with Q, because he knows the man already has enough on his plate with budgets, and truly, Bond does not even know what he would tell him. So he goes back to his hotel, strips out of his shirt and jacket the moment he is in his suite, and heads to the bathroom.

Bond runs a flannel under the tap and presses the material to the mysterious wound. Once the blood is mostly cleared away, Bond cannot explain what he sees. It is almost like a series of cuts that form small lines in his flesh. They are angry red, and Bond puts antiseptic on them to thwart infection. He then raids the MI6 issued first aid kit and puts gauze atop the worst of it before wrapping his upper torso and shoulder with a cloth bandage.

He forgoes the general painkillers in the kit and drinks from the mini bar instead, trying not to be concerned about how such an injury occurred. But despite how much he drinks, Bond feels the pain creeping up until it's almost on par with a second degree burn. When he touches the gauze, it is agonising, like someone is carving into his skin with a knife. He suddenly thinks of Q and how much he wishes they were not halfway around the world from one another.

It is definitely the pain that makes him think that, that makes him lie down on the bed an arm's reach away from his gun on the night table. The light is on in the bathroom, but Bond cannot be arsed to care. His shoulder throbs and burns and the alcohol in his gut rolls uncomfortably. He feels feverish as he closes his eyes and imagines that he is in Q's bed in London and that he can hear the sound of morning traffic over the gentle patter of rain against the windowsill, and that there is a warm arm round his waist and a nest of dark hair tickling his chin. He is not sure if he it is a memory or a dream, but Q hums and opens his eyes and they are more green than grey and remind Bond of _home_.

Q smiles at him, no secrets this time, and it's like the entire universe falls into place.

* * *

 

Part II, Act III

 

* * *

When Bond wakes, it is morning and he is shaking and covered in sweat. Fragments of a dream, of images, fall apart and shatter like glass as he attempts to remember what exactly it was he had been dreaming. Words like _forever_ and _eternity_ filter through his mind, but just as he tries to grasp at them, they slip through his fingers like sand. Minutes pass, and Bond's heart calms, the sweat dries upon his skin, and his head feels empty, as if he's forgotten something integral, but he cannot pinpoint exactly what. Feeling hungover and weak, Bond pulls himself into the bathroom and uses the toilet, then splashes water on his face until he feels a little more human and a lot less nauseous.

Bond looks at himself in the mirror, takes in his unshaven appearance, his red rimmed eyes, the dark circles just beneath them. He looks like he's been through a war and lost. Irritably, Bond yanks off the bloodied bandages around his chest.

Surprisingly, the wounds have clotted over, and the lines are distinct enough for Bond to make out an image, a design, in the chaos upon his skin. He stares at his reflection and cannot quite understand, because it's impossible, it has to be. He must be hallucinating, or he's drugged and still dreaming, because this cannot be happening.

But there upon his chest is the same mark that is on Q's hip, the one that Bond reverently touches and kisses whenever he can.

It doesn't make sense and it's frightening. Bond is used to fighting monsters, but he fights the ones that he can see, the ones that are tangible to hurt and shoot and kill. This is something else entirely, something that shakes him to his core. He cannot explain it-cannot even begin to understand _how_ it happened-and if there's one thing Bond hates, it's not knowing.

But now, Bond had things to do and not enough time to think about anything else. Shaking, he dresses and then drinks until he calms down enough to focus on the mission, then he checks in with MI6. Once he gets the intel, he goes out, does the job, and finishes in record time, with very little damage done to himself or the surrounding civilian population. Bond does not linger and hurries to catch the next possible flight back to London. He spends the entire journey rubbing at the sore mess of lines on his chest, looking out the window at the ground and ocean below, and wondering how on earth he will approach things.

What he does not expect is to feel angry.

Confused, yes. Still a little afraid, possibly. But angry, no. Especially with Q.

But the sight of him sparks something in Bond that makes him slam the door to Q's office harshly. Q immediately stands and comes to him, but Bond pushes him up against the wall and is not gentle about it. He does not let up, even when Q makes a pained sound, and he wishes he could stop himself because this is not how he wanted things to go. But the anger boils and he growls out:

"What did you do to me?"

Q looks at him, confused, and Bond pins him harder against the wall. There will be bruises, but Bond keeps him there regardless and stares into the grey-green depths before him.

"What are you talking about?" Q asks, and for the first time since they've met, Bond sees something he has never seen before: a flicker of untruth in his eyes. He knows in that moment that Q has never lied to him until now.

"What did you _do_?" Bond whispers, and rips open his shirt to expose the still-raw wound. Q's eyes move from his face to the angry red blooms on Bond's chest. He gasps so softly that Bond does not quite hear it as much as he feels beneath his hand. There is recognition in Q's expression.

"Oh, James…" he murmurs, and reaches out to brush his fingers gently over the raised edge of the design. Despite the tenderness in the gesture, Bond cannot control the hiss that escapes him at the touch. Q immediately withdraws his hand and regards Bond calmly. "I think we need to talk."

"So talk," Bond says.

"Why don't we go back to mine," Q suggests, but Bond does not release him.

"We can talk right here."

"I don't think-"

"We can talk right here," Bond says again, and Q swallows at the tone of his voice.

"If that's the case, will you let me go? So we can talk like normal people?" Q asks.

"This isn't a normal situation," Bond replies, but lets him go anyway. Q straightens the front of his cardigan for an abnormally long time and Bond waits, counting seconds as they turn to minutes, and his impatience is nothing but on the rise. When Q looks up again, his eyes meet Bond's for only a moment, before he is back to looking at the mark upon his chest.

"When did it happen?" Q asks, like it's business as usual.

"Yesterday afternoon." Bond replies.

"The onset?"

"Rapid, unexpected."

Bond's tone is harsher than he intends; Q flinches as if Bond had lifted his hand to strike him.

"What were you thinking about?"

"My target, what else would I be thinking about?"

"Something other than your target."

Bond stares at him for a long time, then goes to the bag that he had thrown on the floor upon his entrance. He rummages through the few items inside and pulls out a small box wrapped in stiff paper, which he hands to Q.

"Well, open it," Bond tells him, and Q does.

Inside is a small miniature of the Taj Mahal.

"You got me a kitschy souvenir?" Q asks.

"Your desk is boring."

"You got me a kitschy souvenir."

Q is grinning and heaven help Bond if he cannot catch his breath at the sight of it. He swallows down the confused jumble of joyous feelings at Q's reaction and instead focuses on the lingering pain in his shoulder. Q must sense this, because his grin fades to a smile as he places the statue on his desk, right next to his computer monitor where Bond knows he will undoubtedly see it, and then turns to Bond.

"You were thinking of me," he says, not asks, and Bond nods. Q makes a motion with his hand for Bond to sit in the guest chair. For once, Bond does not argue, and sits, feeling the anger bleed away to weariness.

"What's going on, Q?" Bond asks.

Q's expression transforms into something sad as he approaches. He comes to stand before Bond, leaving only a small sliver of space between them as he leans back against his desk. With slow movements, he begins to undo the buttons of his cardigan, then Q pulls his shirt out from where he had it tucked into his trousers and holds it up for Bond to see. Red lines stare back at him, a perfect copy of what is now on his chest.

"Mine appeared when I was thirteen," Q says softly. "It was very painful, like being cut and burned at the same time...When my parents saw it, they thought I had mutilated myself due to some sort of mental condition. They brought me to a doctor who recommended me to other doctors specifically for troubled youths. I visited at least four psychiatrists that year and none of them could come up with any sort of diagnosis. I wasn't psychotic or depressed or suicidal. They couldn't explain it just as much as I couldn't, or _wouldn't_ , I should say."

He smooths the shirt down and looks very lost for a moment, as lost as Bond felt when he first saw the marks upon him, and that is when Bond knows for certain that Q is telling the truth.

"I began having dreams," Q continues. "Well, not really dreams, but I didn't know it then. More like memories."

"Memories," Bond repeats. Q sighs and puts his head into his hands.

"This part is always...so difficult…" he murmurs, then straightens and looks at Bond with open honesty. "The memories are from past lives. Our past lives, to be exact. We...we've met before, many times. Our fates have always been intertwined."

Bond stares and stares some more, because the words don't make sense no matter how he tries to comprehend them.

"What are you saying?" Bond asks, his mouth suddenly very dry.

Q closes the space between them and touches Bond's shoulder. His eyes are like a stormy sea.

"We are, for lack of a better term, soulmates."

* * *

 

Part II, Act IV

 

* * *

Bond does not see Q for a week.

He goes back to his flat and locks the door. He sits and drinks and listens to traffic, but he's not thinking about M or about Vesper or about anything, _anyone_ but Q. His words ring in Bond's ears _soulmates_ and he scoffs and drinks until the bitterness is so heavy on his tongue that he knows he needs to stop. He showers and lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. It is hard to sleep when he is used to Q's ceiling and the direction of his windows facing East instead of West and it's so quiet without someone breathing next to him that Bond wants to crawl out of his skin. He wants Q, even now, and it is crazy and wrong because none of it makes any sense.

When he is not drinking, Bond is ignoring his mobile and pacing and thinking and torturing himself with questions. He watches as the mark on his chest heals rapidly day by day. By the time the last bit of clotted blood falls away and the skin is no longer swollen, Bond sees the design in all its beauty. It is much more beautiful on Q, Bond thinks, but then he has to stop himself. He does not want to imagine the sleek shelves of Q's hips and the gentle slope of his arse because it comes with a crushing sort of feeling that he may never touch Q again. It drives him to drink more than is healthy and sets him back into the cycle of too much liquor and not enough sleep. If someone were to ask him why he is doing this, Bond could not answer, because it has not even been four months and it is definitely not love, but Bond is enamored with Q to the point of madness.

Maybe that is why he is willing to believe him and his extraordinary tale, even though all rational thought screams at him that it is entirely misguided of him. Or maybe it is because Q looked at him and Bond knew he had not uttered a lie.

He knocks on Q's door at some ungodly hour of the morning, realising a moment too late that he's forgotten his coat and did not button the top half of his shirt and that he smells like booze and has not shaved in days. But when the door opens and Q appears looking tired and haggard, Bond forgets all of that entirely. Words tumble out of his mouth before he can restrain them:

"You're taking the piss."

Q leans on the door frame and gives Bond an exhausted little smile.

"I wish I was," he answers.

And Bond does not know what to do except allow Q to lead him into the flat. It only vaguely registers in his mind that Q has brought him to the ensuite and is drawing a bath when Bond hears the roar of the taps. The room becomes warm and steamy, comfortable, almost dreamlike and Bond feels his eyes closing of their own volition. Careful fingers undress him and coax him into the water; Q does not join him, but sits just outside of the tub within arm's reach.

"How does it feel?" Q asks, and it takes Bond a moment to understand that he is talking about the mark upon his chest.

"It doesn't hurt anymore," Bond says, reaching for him. Q intercepts his hand and kisses the backs of his fingers.

"Good," he murmurs, and does not release him. He stops the taps after some time, and then there is nothing in the quiet room except for their breaths and the steady lap of water against the porcelain basin.

"Soulmates," Bond says.

"Yes," Q replies, brushing his lips along the inside of Bond's wrist. "Two halves of one whole."

"I don't believe in soulmates," Bond says, because it's crazy, impossible.

"I know," Q answers and his eyes are just as storm grey as they were the day they last spoke. Bond thinks there is nothing more beautiful in the world.

Maybe it is love after all.

* * *

 

Part II, Act V

 

* * *

Q tells him that he will not go to work the next day, and Bond is grateful because it means that he can wake up with the windows facing the right direction and with his arm round Q's waist. He likes listening to Q breathe because it's comforting to have someone warm and alive next to him whom he can trust. He wakes at dawn but does not rise, too content to move, but too aware to go back to sleep. It is only after an hour of lying there that Bond realises they are breathing in unison, as if their brains are commanding their lungs to operate in perfect synchronicity. He loops his hand around Q's wrist and counts his heartbeats, then counts his own, and they are matched almost perfectly.

_Two halves of one whole_.

When a weak pane of morning sunlight falls across the bed, Q makes a grumpy sound that Bond finds endearing, especially when it leads to having the other man turn over and curl up against him. He burrows beneath the duvet and moves closer, mumbling a sleepy _good morning_ against the curve of Bond's neck.

Regardless of whatever the truth may be about all of this soulmate business, Bond knows that he would be very much content to wake up this way every morning for the rest of his life.

They are slow to get up and out of bed, especially because Q's kisses are pleasantly distracting, but Bond is firm on wanting to talk about things and they do not let their wandering hands venture any further. Instead, they work on getting cleaned up. Q makes sure that Bond has a toothbrush and lends him a razor so that he can take care of the three day growth on his face. After washing up, Bond finds a few articles of his clothing hanging in Q's wardrobe, which he must have forgotten at one point or another while on leave between missions, and dresses casually. Q does the same, and they are quiet as they lock up the flat and walk to get breakfast. Although Bond is not usually one for public displays, he let's Q hold his hand on their journey to a corner cafe a few blocks away.

It is late enough in the morning that they have missed the early crowds, but not yet late enough that the lunch rush is on its way. The weak beginning-of-autumn sunlight is warm enough that they opt to sit outside. Bond positions his chair so that he can see the street behind Q and all oncoming traffic. He still has his Walther from the mission in India, on which he still has yet to be debriefed, which is against regulation, but he knows that he will use it without hesitation should trouble arise.

"You can relax," Q tells him, over the edge of his menu. "The most exciting things that happen in this part of London are related to road construction."

"Never can be too careful, Q," Bond says.

"No, I suppose not," Q agrees. "Carry on, then."

He lets Bond survey the place without another word, only speaking when the server comes to take their orders.

"You'll need to go in for debrief," Q says, after the man has walked away with their menus.

"In good time," Bond replies. "First things first."

"Breakfast?" Q asks, and he says it so brightly that Bond cannot refuse him. They drink their coffee and tea and eat their omelettes in silence. After they pay, Q takes his hand again and leads him purposefully along, until the city pavements give way to brick pathways in a small park. The greenery is lush and calming compared to the grey of the city and Bond finds himself breathing easier.

"So tell me," Bond says.

"Where do I begin?" Q asks.

"At the beginning," Bond replies, and Q laughs.

"The beginning was a long time ago," he says.

"How long ago?"

"Ancient Greece. Around 400 BC, give or take."

Bond stops and sways a bit at Q's matter-of-fact tone.

"400 BC," he says.

"Yes," Q answers, and looks sad in a way that Bond cannot begin to understand. It is like the way Q smiles so mysteriously, like his entire being is comprised of nothing but secrets.

"And you remember?" Bond asks.

"Yes," Q replies. "I always do."

Q begins walking again, and with their hands linked, Bond follows. They travel for some time in silence again, and Bond can tell that it is not because Q has nothing to say, but that he is trying to think of how to say what is going on in his head.

"We first met in Athens," he says. "I was studying mathematics at the time. You were a playwright. We met accidentally. Well, maybe. I'm not sure I believe in coincidences anymore."

Q smiles and it is a bit self-deprecating. Bond wants to kiss him, but he does not know if it is appropriate.

"We were romantic almost immediately. There was no cause to hide it in such a time, so we didn't. I think it was one of our happiest lives because of that," Q finishes. Their walk pauses at the end of a footbridge, where Q looks over the railing and down at the water below.

"And the others?"

"They were happy too, don't get me wrong, but times...change. There were wars and famines and plagues, so not the best of times for anyone, really. And most often, we were reincarnated as two men, which made secrecy another aspect of our relationship. Hiding was always hard... We weren't allowed to be seen together, or be caught spending too much time with one another. It just wasn't done," Q explains, and sighs, leaning into Bond. He feels small in a way that does not feel right, and Bond cannot help releasing his hand so that he can put both arms round him.

"How do you remember all of this?" Bond asks.

"I'm not sure," Q replies, resting his forehead against Bond's sternum. "Like I said, I dreamed most of it. But then I didn't forget when I woke up. I just kept accumulating more and more memories of us, always different names and faces, but always us."

"Why don't I remember?" Bond asks.

"Sometimes you do," Q answers. "Sometimes you only remember bits and pieces. Most of the time, though, there's nothing. That's why...it's so hard to prove it to you."

"And the mark?"

"It always appears on me first, usually when I'm young, before my fifteenth birthday and never any later than that. Yours appears only after we've met and you...acknowledge that you have some sort of strong feeling for me."

"Strong feeling?"

"It doesn't have to be sexual," Q replies, and the tips of his ears are red. "We've lived several lives just as very good friends."

"Just friends?" Bond asks.

"You were married," Q explains. "Happily so. It wasn't my place."

"But aren't we supposed to be-"

"A soulmate doesn't have to be a romantic partner. It's someone who compliments you...who serves as your other half."

"But weren't you lonely?" Bond asks.

"Of course," Q answers, in a way that makes something hard stick in Bond's throat, "but if there's one thing that I've learned from all of these memories, it's how to be lonely."

And it might be a little too much for Bond to believe-to admit that there are such things as destiny and soulmates-but he knows that some sort of force is at work that he cannot explain. There's something about Q and there's something about the way Bond feels when he's with Q that tells him it's _right_. It might be a mistake, too large of a leap of faith, but Q's eyes are open and not lying and Bond can do nothing but _believe him_. And that is what makes him tighten his arms round Q and press a kiss to his temple.

"You don't have to be lonely anymore," Bond says.

Q tilts his head a bit and brushes the tip of his nose along the hinge of Bond's jaw.

"You don't know how long I've waited to hear you say that."


	5. Interlude II

 

* * *

Interlude II

* * *

 

Bond makes it back to London in time for the last thunderstorm of the fall. He has just spent three weeks in a scorching African desert, and so the temperature is a relief. When he arrives at the flat after a grueling two hour meeting with Mallory, he finds that Q is already home. The lights are on and the windows are open just enough that Bond can smell the damp of earth and car exhaust outside.

"Welcome back," Q says. He is standing in the doorway to the bedroom, completely naked except for his glasses. Bond lets his eyes roam appreciatively along Q's form, knowing from the past few months just which angles are his favourite, and which ones look like hard lines but are actually quite soft, especially when Q has gone hazy with orgasm. His gaze rests at the mark on his hip before shifting to the interested cock between his legs.

"I prefer this to debriefing any day," Bond replies, thinking three weeks is three weeks too long since they've last been together. The way Q grins at him, Bond knows he feels the same.

They fall into bed together, as fierce and unstoppable as the storm outside. Bond won't admit that he's a little sore after, but in a satisfying way. Q has marks all over his neck that he'll complain about when he has to cover them up before he can go to work in the morning, but for now he's flushed and smiling. The rain slows down and the wind calms, leaving nothing but the gentle sound of it hitting the windows. Bond traces random patterns on Q's stomach, then trails lower to the flowers on his hip. He still thinks that Q's mark is more beautiful than his. He wonders if it has something to do with age.

"Thirteen, hm?" Bond says, moving his thumb over one of the most prominent petals.

"Hmm?" Q replies. His eyes are closed and Bond wonders if he had been dozing.

"When this appeared," Bond clarifies.

"Mm," Q answers, and stretches out like a cat next to him. His long limbs move around Bond until he finds himself trapped in a lazy embrace. Bond curls his arm round Q and rests his cheek in his hair, thinking about how terrifying it must have been for a thirteen year-old boy to undergo agonising pain without knowing why. Then to relive thousands of years of memories and realise that everything is predetermined, foreordained, and that free choice is nothing but an illusion? And to not tell a single soul about any of it?

"Must have been hard," Bond says, even though _hard_ most likely does not begin to cover it.

"It was," Q agrees, and curls into him with a sigh. "Maths has always been comforting to me in that regard. Computers even more so. My chance to play God, you know? Make decisions that are not already mapped out somewhere in time and space."

"And your parents?" Bond asks.

"We don't talk. We never really did. No common ground."

"Friends?"

"A few growing up. One or two at uni. Nothing special."

"Partners?"

"No, none."

Bond looks down at the man in his arms, strokes at his hair and thinks that it's impossible, because certainly Q had not been...

"Was that your first time?" Bond asks.

"Hmm, what?" Q asks sleepily, stirring against him.

"The night we first got together," Bond elaborates. "Was that your first time?"

There is a thoughtful silence for a few moments.

"Our lives are a series of first meetings and first times," Q replies, his words pretty and rhythmic like poetry. "So, no, it wasn't my first time, because we've made love before and will continue to make love in many of the lives after this one."

"That doesn't answer my question," Bond replies, "about this life, I mean."

"I'm not uneducated in the area of sex," Q answers, somewhat defensively. "But my body was, I suppose, _virginal_ at the time, yes."

"You were a virgin?" Bond asks.

"Yes," Q clarifies, and looks up at Bond with a small smile. "Thank you for being gentle with me. It was a beautiful experience."

"So you've never...I mean, anything? With anyone else?" Bond inquires, because he has to _know_.

"No, just you," Q answers, like it's the simplest thing. Bond does not know what expression he wears, but Q regards him gently. "Why would I settle for anyone less? I knew I would meet you one day. I didn't think it prudent to waste my time with others who weren't right for me."

"What if I was married? Or with someone else?" Bond asks. Q shrugs one shoulder.

"I might be tempted by someone, it's possible, but really the only person who can satisfy me is you," Q replies, then rests his head on the pillow next to Bond's. "I feel incomplete otherwise."

Bond settles next to him, trails his fingers along Q's cheekbone in wonder.

"You waited...all that time…"

"I did," Q says, and smiles just a bit. "It's you or no one else."

Bond stares at the curve of Q's collarbone, feeling overwhelmingly guilty that while he had spent his whole life jumping from one bed to another, Q had remained celibate and steadfast, waiting for him.

"And I-"

"Don't, James," he interrupts him. Bond looks up and sees nothing but sincerity in Q's eyes. The other man props himself up on his elbow. His voice is all practicality. "Don't feel guilty. I don't begrudge you for any of it. I never could, even if I wanted to." He skips his fingers down Bond's arm, tracing over the tattoo on his chest. The touch of his skin is soothing, like a balm on Bond's nerves. Q moves his finger in gentle circles over the design of red scar tissue. "I'm just...so happy I get to be with you now."

He says it with something tight in his voice, and Bond is immediately concerned.

"Were there times when we didn't meet?" he asks.

"Yes," Q answers, and lies down again. "And those were the worst lives I've ever lived."

"Q-"

"Let's not talk about it right now, yeah?"

Bond nods, even though there is so much that he wants to ask, to say. Q bears the curse of a thousand lifetimes of knowledge, and carries it all alone, upon such small shoulders. Bond kisses at the curve of Q's neck, as if it will somehow make that burden lighter. Fingers slide into his hair, and Bond hums at the touch. There is nothing between them but skin and unspoken things and Bond feels the second like a rift, like a wound. Bond knows that he may never truly understand what Q's been through, but he wants to try.

"What's your name?" Bond asks softly. "Your real name?"

Q looks up at him and Bond watches some of the mystery fall away from his gaze. His eyes are unbelievably green.

"Do you really want to know?" he asks.

"Yes," Bond replies. "All of them."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"There are a lot," Q warns him.

"I think I'm prepared," Bond answers, and smiles.

"Where should we begin?"

"At the beginning, of course."

Q laughs.

"The beginning was a long time ago," Q reminds him.

"We have time," Bond says. Q's smile falters momentarily, and Bond notices, but doesn't say anything. Q settles down next to him again and murmurs name after name after name, warm breaths against Bond's chest. They're foreign and beautiful and each one sounds even more familiar than the last. By the time Q reaches the last name, the final name, Bond is on the cusp of sleep.

He just barely hears it over the rain.


	6. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the angst-train, choo choo!

 

 

" _Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature."_

-Plato, _The Symposium_

* * *

 

Part III, Act I

* * *

 

Bond gets shot at in Cairo and has a bad bit of luck on an aeroplane, but manages to get home in mostly one piece. Q is livid because Bond had dropped his earpiece on purpose so that he could do the mission his own way. It gets done faster, but the entire Egyptian government is in a political uproar over the fact that half the city is on fire, though honestly, Bond thinks everyone is making too big a deal.

"It _is_ a big deal," Q tells him when Bond says so.

"Why?" Bond asks, leaning back in his chair. "I did the job."

" _Cairo's on fire_ -"

"Well stop complaining about it and put it out."

"You're _insufferable_. You nearly _died_. _Again_."

"Not a complete waste of a day."

"You're being reckless on purpose, aren't you? Just to see if you can give me a bloody coronary."

"Your plan would have taken too long."

Q shoves a thick file off his desk and papers and photographs go flying.

"My plan would have kept you out of harm's way," Q says.

"I'm an agent. There's no such thing as _out of harm's way_ ," Bond replies.

"That may be true, but I can at least offer you some small measure of protection," Q retorts irritably. His hands are shaking. Bond notices that he tries to hide it by sitting down so that the desk hides his hands from sight.

"I did the job," Bond says again.

"You cocked up," Q tells him, and gives Bond a warning glare. "It's a miracle you're not bleeding out on my floor on top of it."

Bond grins.

"You love me."

Q's expression darkens and Bond suddenly feels guilty for throwing that card on the table when they are at work.

"I do," Q says, sounding almost resigned. Bond feels his heart skip a beat and a half, then again when Q repeats: "I do love you." Bond can only sit, speechless, and watch as Q runs his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands at his right temple. He breathes and continues: "I love you more than anything... So when you do all of this… all this stupid, _reckless_ shit…" Q does not look at him. Instead he glances at the Taj Mahal trinket next to his computer, surrounded by the few other kitschy things Bond has brought back for him over the last few missions, and he grimaces like he's in pain. "It's...hurtful, James, that you don't even try to be careful. Not even for me."

"Q-"

"Don't. I don't want you to apologise. I just want you to understand why I do this. I'm trying to protect you the only way that I can. I'm trying to keep you in my life because I've _waited_...I've waited _so long_ , and I'm not ready to lose you. Not yet...I can't say goodbye to you yet. We still have a bit more time…we have to have more time..."

Bond can barely hear Q, he's whispering so softly, and his head is bowed but Bond can see the tears falling onto the desk, onto the mess of plans and reports and broken pieces of equipment. It sends a pang of guilt through him, because he had promised Q that he did not have to be lonely anymore. He knows it was a stupid decision-because Double-Ohs don't live long lives-but he knows that he can at least _try_ to make things last, for as long as they have, which does not feel like long with Q's ominous words hanging in the space between them.

Q straightens suddenly, but then turns in his chair, his back to Bond before he can see his face.

"Out of my office, Bond," he says, a clear dismissal.

Bond leaves, properly shamed, and goes to Medical as if that might serve as some kind of repentance on his part. They patch him up and send him on his way, but Bond does not go back to his flat or Q's. Instead, he takes a car and drives about the city and thinks about how cruel he has been and what on earth he can do to make amends for it all. He knows that he can make promises that he may intend to keep, but might not be able to see through, and he's done making those sorts of empty gestures to Q. He also knows that he is not good at apologies or poetry, because his life has never really called for such things.

So Bond drives and drives and drives until he ends up in a place that he has not been in what feels like a hundred years.

And he has an idea.

It's not strictly legal and might get him into a fair bit of trouble with the authorities, but Bond is pretty good at these sorts of situations and he manages alright, even without the aid of Q-Branch. It takes him about thirty-five minutes to get back to Q's flat, and Bond knocks but Q does not open the door. He lets himself in, disabling the security system with his biometrics. The flat is dark, but not empty; Bond can hear the shower running and feel the humidity of the steam coming from the bathroom.

He creeps into the bedroom, his bundle in hand, and begins to lay out his apology the best he can.

When Q emerges from the bathroom, he steps on one; it crinkles under his bare foot. Bond watches from the corner of the room as Q fumbles in his towel for the lightswitch. The lights come on, and Bond watches the surprise take over his expression at the sight. Amaranths are common enough, but not in London, and even if they were, they would not be the beautiful species that are rich with lush reds, violets, and pinks. Bond picked the most colourful he could find, at least six different types, and displayed them as artfully as he could: a trail of purple leading to the bed, the reds and pinks in every available container he could locate (which comprise all the juice glasses and coffee mugs in the house), and he even draped some of the flowering tendrils over their lampshades. It smells like spring.

Q's surprise turns into delight and wonder, and then his gaze eventually falls on Bond, and he tries to look unimpressed, but does not quite manage it while smiling.

"Amaranths," Q says.

"It's appropriate," Bond replies.

"Where did you…?"

"The Royal Botanic Gardens."

"You _stole_ from the-"

"Shh, it's romantic," Bond says.

Q stares at him, wide-eyed, and then he starts laughing. It gives Bond the bit of courage to move forward, still unsure if he is forgiven, not knowing if he even has the right to ask for such a thing.

"I'm going to have to answer a lot of questions in the morning, aren't I?" Q asks, indicating the stolen flora surrounding them.

"Not if you turn off your phone," Bond says. Q gives him a look, then brushes past him to pick up his mobile from the bedside table. He makes a show of powering it down, then a more enjoyable show of dropping his towel before stretching naked across the bed. _Their_ bed.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you," Q tells him.

"No?" Bond asks, tugging at his tie.

"No, but it's a start," he says, and beckons him with a shadow of his mysterious smile. "And there are plenty of ways to earn the rest."

Bond strips out of his clothes and grins.

Q puts him through his paces that night and Bond gives him everything he asks for. Afterward, the sheets smell like sweat and sex and the slightly perfumed scent of flowers. Bond noses at Q's damp hair and says:

"I really am sorry."

"I know."

Bond tilts his chin up and kisses him slowly.

"I'll try to be more careful. I will."

Q smiles and breathes out a gentle sigh of relief.

"Thank you."

They shut out the lights and lay there in the dark. Q presses kisses to his jaw and neck sleepily as they wind down and prepare for sleep.

"I love you, you know," Bond says, and he does not know what compels him to say it in that moment, in the darkness, but he feels as if he needs to. Even if he does not really believe in soulmates, Bond cannot deny what they are and what that means, just as he cannot lie to himself and say that this thing he feels is nothing at all, nothing serious, when it is the most serious thing he has ever experienced.

"I love you," Q returns, and Bond can hear it, how much he is loved, just in those three words. "Always."

Bond has jumped out of planes and buildings and bridges and still never experienced such euphoria.

"Always," Bond repeats, and feels comfort in that sense of undying, unwavering devotion. He trusts Q more than anyone and loves him more than anyone and nothing can destroy that. Nothing at all.

Bond is just about to fall asleep when Q asks:

"What's it like?"

"What's what like?" Bond asks.

"You know. Falling in love?"

Bond looks down at Q and even in the dark he can see the spill of his curls over the pillow and the curve of his lashes.

"You don't know?" Bond asks.

"Of course I do. But I fell in love with you a long time ago," Q explains. "Ever since then...I've just _been_ in love with you. There's no more falling for me. I'm in a state of perpetually being in love with you, all versions of you, irrevocably and undeniably, in every single life."

Bond smiles and he feels Q do the same against his chest.

"Well, honestly, it's terrifying," Bond says sincerely. "I'm still a bit terrified, actually,"

"Really?" Q asks, no judgment in his voice, only curiosity.

Bond feels a bit uncomfortable. He always has been rubbish at emotions, especially when it comes time to talk about them. But just as he's looking for the words, they spill past his lips.

"It takes a lot...to give yourself to someone else entirely. You have to trust someone enough to not hurt you and trust yourself to not hurt them. But people change and people fall in and out of love all the time. After a while, it's easier not to. So it's frightening to think about falling in love or being in love, because no one knows if their love is going to last. Well, except for you," Bond says, and smiles.

Q touches his face and pulls him into a kiss. It's sweet and borderline reverent, but very, inexplicably _sad_.

"Yes," Q murmurs. "Except for me."

* * *

 

Part III, Act II

 

* * *

 

There's something ominous in the air.

He tries to ignore it, but he feels it, like a far off storm, like the oncoming heart of winter. Bond does not bring it up with Q, but he must be patently obvious about it, because even Moneypenny notices.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"It's nothing," he answers, and goes to his meeting with Mallory. She is waiting outside the door when Bond emerges and she has a cup of coffee in her hand.

"You sure?" she asks, continuing from the thread of their previous conversation.

"Absolutely," Bond says, taking the coffee when she offers it.

"Maybe you should talk about it with Q," Eve says, her eyes alight. "You two have been getting on."

"Maybe I will," Bond replies, and she winks like she knows all his secrets.

He is not even down in TSS a half moment before Q meets him on the threshold, wearing his anorak.

"Fancy a walk?" he asks and Bond raises an eyebrow at him. He looks a bit sheepish. "Moneypenny rang."

"Nosy," Bond replies, but joins Q on his walk regardless. They take a tour round the familiar shops and streets and stay out for a full fifteen minutes despite the chilly wind. Q links his arm with Bond's and then digs his hands fully into the pockets of his jacket.

"What are you thinking about?" Q asks.

"It's nothing," Bond replies.

"Hmm," is Q's noncommittal response.

They pass a shop with a display of wool coats in the window, and Q stops their trek long enough to look at the items.

"Maybe I should get a new coat this year," he says, and looks at Bond. "What do you think?"

Bond opens his mouth to tell him that he thinks it's absolutely imperative that Q get a decent winter coat, but the words that tumble past his lips are:

"What happens?"

"If I...get a new coat?" Q asks, and his brows are raised beneath his fringe in questioning.

"No, I mean, what happens," Bond asks. "With us."

The seconds trickle by where Q just looks at him like he's looking into his soul and then suddenly, Bond _knows_.

"No," he breathes, and Q's expression barely keeps from crumpling at that single word.

"James," he begins.

"No, it can't be," Bond continues, shaking his head. Q steps close to him and takes Bond's face in his hands. He kisses him once, as gentle as an exhale, and smooths his thumbs down along Bond's cheeks. "Please tell me it's not-"

"Shh...don't worry about that now…" Q tells him.

But Bond does, because while he always knew death was inevitable, he did not want it to be so, especially now, when he and Q have finally found each other and are _happy_. He worries because Q will not talk about it-not then and not after-no matter what Bond tries, and it's painful because sometimes he sees Q looking very sad when he thinks no one is watching. One night, Bond comes back to the flat and sees Q standing in front of the wall calendar with intense concentration, like he's counting the days.

When Q turns to welcome him home, the smile does not reach his eyes.

* * *

 

Part III, Act III

* * *

 

"Tell me about Greece," Bond says one morning.

He is two days into a mandatory leave after a rough mission in Beijing. His ribs are still sore and his wrist is in a splint, but Bond knows that he'll be back on active duty in no time. Until then, Q all but babies him, opting to work from home for the next week so that Bond does not have to be alone. Bond only allows it because that means they get to spend more time together and prevents Bond from having to trek all the way to Six just to have Q ignore him while he is running the branch.

"What about Greece?" Q asks, sliding his bare feet beneath Bond for warmth. They are eating breakfast on the sofa, bundled up in blankets because Q had cracked one of the windows to smell the snow.

"What happened to us? The first time," Bond clarifies.

Q appears thoughtful for a moment, as if the depths of his oatmeal will reveal all the answers to life's most difficult questions. He puts the bowl onto the coffee table and looks at Bond.

"I told you. I studied maths, you were a playwright," Q says. "The rest is, well, _ancient history_."

Q smiles, and Bond tries to, but he's thinking about the way Q stared at the calendar and the ominous feeling like _something_ is going to happen, but he does not quite know what.

"How long were we together?" Bond asks. Q's smile falters a bit.

"A short while," he replies.

"How long is a short while?"

"I'm not sure."

Bond knows that Q is pointedly avoiding answering.

"How did I die?" Bond asks.

Q swallows and looks at Bond as if begging him to take back his question.

"Suddenly," Q replies.

"What happened?" Bond asks and Q glances away.

"A fever took hold of you," he answers quietly, brushing away the wrinkles in the blanket across their laps. "I begged the Gods to save you, and prepared sacrifices to Apollo for his mercy, but…"

Q's eyes are wet, but he does not cry.

"And after?"

"I often visited your resting place and laid amaranths on your grave, when the seasons permitted. You were writing about them at the time, you know? You told me that there was never such a beautiful metaphor for undying love than the amaranth, so I only thought it fitting…"

Q stops, removes his glasses, and rubs the sleeve of his cardigan over his face.

"I prayed that I would see you again and wished for a hastened death so that I could meet you in the afterlife," he murmured. "I thought about killing myself, but I couldn't, not without the consent of the Gods. It would have turned me out of the favour, and I knew I would never see you again if I were to end my life by my own hand. So I waited. Twelve years later, I succumbed to an infection of the lung."

The silence that follows is heavy with regret. Q continues to hide in his sleeve, as if it will protect him.

"And our other lives?" Bond asks, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

"Not important," Q says, and straightens up. His eyes and the tip of his nose are red. He pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and smiles a broken sort of smile. "We need only be concerned about this life. The ones that have passed have passed."

"But what happened?" Bond asks, and reaches for Q's hand. It's cold and trembles in his. "What happened to make you so sad?"

"I can't…" Q says, and brings Bond's hand to his cheek, which is warm and damp with his tears. "It's just the way...things are."

"Tell me," Bond says, and pulls Q to him.

"No, I'm not burdening you," Q replies, sliding his arms round Bond in a desperate embrace. "I'm not doing that to you again."

"Q…"

"I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"You shouldn't have to do this alone. Not when I'm here."

Bond holds him for what feels like hours. By midday, it becomes unbearably cold, and Q gets up to close the window. Bond watches him and cannot help but think back to the moment they met at the National Gallery, when Q was nothing but an enigma comprised of harsh, untouchable lines. He looks similarly now, and they may be in the same room, but Bond suddenly feels like he is very far away.

* * *

 

Part III, Act IV

* * *

 

Bond returns to MI6 after spending too long in Cambodia and he's sore all the way down to his bones and wants to sleep for days. But he debriefs first and then returns his equipment. It's late enough that it's early, and Q has already gone home, so Bond leaves his kit with a Q-Branch kid and hails a cab back to the flat. It's miserably cold and dark and Bond huddles further into his coat as he makes the dash from kerb to the building. The lift rattles to the top floor and Bond is so very _tired_ that he can barely stand.

But the moment he opens the door, he feels that something is wrong, and the exhaustion lifts as adrenalin kicks and flares in his veins.

It's very cold, and when Bond feels the wind cut through the space, he knows that it is because the windows are open. He turns on the lights when he passes through the foyer and into the living room. There are shards of glass on the floor and torn out pages of books and the shredded remains of the calendar that used to hang on the wall in the kitchen. Bond steps over the worse of it carefully, on high alert for an intruder in the house with him, with Q.

He smells smoke and follows it into the bedroom, where the lights are on and he finds his lover sitting beneath the window in only his vest and pants. There is a cigarette in his right hand and a near-empty bottle of something in his left. Their alarm clock lays in a broken heap beside him. His feet are bare and bleeding and his glasses are missing.

"Q," Bond says, and Q looks up at him. His eyes are sunken and dark, and Bond knows that he's drunk and maybe a bit strung out, but Q at least has enough presence of mind to look slightly ashamed.

"I didn't expect you back until tomorrow," Q says, taking a drag from his cigarette.

"Is this what you do when I'm away?" Bond asks, gesturing to the destruction around them.

"Sometimes," Q replies, and snubs out the cigarette on the floor. He goes to take a drink, but Bond reaches for the bottle and snatches it out of his hand.

"Stop this, Q," Bond says.

"Stop what?" Q asks, and his voice is razor sharp and angry. "Am I not allowed to have a bad day?"

"This is more than just a bad day."

"You're right. It's a bad fucking eternity."

Bond has never heard such venom in Q's voice, which no longer sounds like poetry when he's been abusing his throat with tobacco and drink. He places the liquor far from Q's reach, then sits down next to him and leans his back against the wall. His wounds smart at the uncomfortable position and the two of them are right beneath the window, so it is cold enough that Bond shivers, even in his coat. Neither of them says anything. It feels like forever before Q leans against him and rests his cheek against Bond's arm.

"I'm sorry," Q mumbles thickly. "I didn't...want you to see this…"

"Tell me," Bond says. He knows what this is about and if he's honest, Bond knows that this has been coming. People can only bear a burden so long before they break, and Q has been carrying this one for too long. "Please."

At first, there's nothing, and Bond thinks that it's going to be like it always is when he tries to bring it up. But then Q grips at his sleeve and lets out a shuddering breath.

"I've tried…I've tried to save you...over and over again...I keep trying but I… I can't… " Q says, his voice very small. "It's always you...you're always first, _always_ …and it hurts...God, it _hurts_ , James...to feel you die…like being torn in half... and then...and then I'm always…"

Bond can hear what he wants to say, trapped on the end of his tongue, because he knows Q now more than he knows anyone. He knows what his mysterious smile hides and understands why sometimes Q looks sad when he thinks no one is watching.

" _I'm always alone_."

Eternity, Bond realises then, is nothing but a prison.

"We'll figure it out," he says, because they _have to_.

But Q just shakes his head and pulls away.

"I'm going to be sick," he says. Bond helps him up, half dragging, half carrying him into the bathroom. He spends the next fifteen minutes sitting on the edge of the tub and rubbing Q's back as he retches weakly into the toilet. When Q is done sicking up, Bond draws him a hot bath and helps him into the water. His skin is as cold as ice.

"Relax," Bond tells him, and leaves Q alone for a few minutes. Bond turns up the heat, then goes through the house and closes all the windows. After, he sweeps up all the debris on the floor and bins it, along with the cigarettes. Bond pours the alcohol down the drain and stares at the place where the calendar used to hang on the wall.

Bond thought they would have more time.

He returns to the bathroom and stiffly kneels down next to the tub. Q is not dozing, but not awake, either. His eyes are dark and far away. Bond brushes his fringe back with a gentle hand, but Q does not seem to notice. He does not to know what Q is thinking about, how many lives he is reliving, because the thought of it kills him a little inside. Why is it that Q is the one that always has to wait, has to suffer, has to _remember_?

"It's not fair," Bond says, and Q closes his eyes.

Even though he is tired and sore, Bond manages to get Q out of the tub and dry, into warm clothes, and then bundled into bed. He follows suit shortly after, but does not sleep. Q's back is against his chest and it is dark, but Bond can feel him crying and every little breath breaks his heart. It seems like hours before Q succumbs to slumber, and his breaths are deep and even. Through the curtains over their window, Bond watches the evening sky turn grey and then lighten with the dawn. Next to him, Q is nothing but bones; he feels so _small_. And Bond hates it because there's nothing he can do. Fate is going to destroy them over and over again and they cannot change a thing.

Morning comes and Q has a fever, so Bond does not let him up out of bed. He brings him tea something to eat, but Q has no interest in any of it. His grey eyes are as dull as the clouds outside their window, heavy with moisture.

"Now you know," he says.

Bond sits next to him.

"There has to be something we can do," Bond replies.

"There's nothing," Q says, and lies down without touching his tea. He puts his back to Bond and sighs. "It's Fated that your heart must stop before mine and that my death will follow in natural course. I don't know why, that's just how it always has been and always will be."

"It can't be," Bond answers.

"It is," Q says.

"What do we do?"

"There's nothing we can do."

Q does not turn round to look at him, but his hand seeks out Bond's. His fingers clasp onto Bond's so tightly that he thinks they might leave bruises.

There is nothing else that can be said.

* * *

 

Part III, Act V

* * *

 

They have a deadline, an expiration date, and Bond is anxious because Q still won't tell him when it will happen.

"Even I don't know for sure," Q says, not even glancing up from his computer. "All I know is that it's nearing that time."

Bond shoves all the papers off Q's desk and knocks the lamp over in the process. It makes Q look at him, but his expression is stoic, removed, as if he's already prepared himself for the inevitable and that is the end of it. That alone makes the anger in Bond flare up, because Q is not one to lie down for anyone or anything which makes his complacency all the more enraging.

"Then what are we still doing here?" Bond asks. "We're still working and pretending like everything is fine. Why are we going through the motions when it's pointless?"

"Because," Q says, looking a bit desperate. "It's all I have."

"You have me," Bond replies, and Q's expression turns pained. "Stop it, Q. Stop doing this. I'm still here."

"And after? What then?" Q asks calmly. "I have to...prepare myself. It doesn't get any easier with time, James. It just gets worse. I've got to have a life after you've gone even if I don't want to. Do you know how _hard that is_?"

"Do you think I want this?" Bond asks. Q looks away.

"I'm sorry. I'm being horrible," he says. Bond comes round to the other side of his desk and kneels down in front of him.

"Let's take leave," Bond says. "Let's go do everything we possibly can while we can."

"Like what?" Q asks.

"Let's go to Paris."

"Paris?"

"Yes, let's go. Right now. I'll get us a suite at the most expensive hotel in the city and we'll order only the best champagne. We'll stay up so late that we can watch the sunrise. How does that sound?"

Q kisses him.

"You're too wonderful to me," Q says, and smiles in a way that lights up his whole face and makes Bond's heart nearly _stop_ with joy. "Let's go."

They are nearly out the door when Bond's mobile rings in his right pocket.

"Not answering it," Bond says, pushing him out of the office.

Q's mobile rings next.

"Don't answer," Bond advises him, but Q does. Within forty-five minutes, Bond is prepping to leave on a high priority mission to Moldova, something from years ago that is finally going to get wrapped up.

"It's alright," Q says, touching his hand. "We'll go to Paris when you come back."

They don't go to Paris when Bond comes back.

It's the middle of March when he finally returns. He's got three sprained ribs and stitches in his eyebrow but it's better than being dead, and he's pretty proud of that fact actually. MI6 is quiet as a tomb when he arrives an hour before dawn, but there is an SMS on his phone that says _roof_ and Bond goes right away.

"Welcome home," Q says, when Bond meets him outside. It's a cold and clear pre-morning with no clouds on the horizon. There are two chairs that Bond recognises from the lounge nearest Intentions and Q is sitting in one, draped in a huge blanket that must be included in the standard Siberia field agent pack. Q smiles at him and holds up the edge of the blanket in invitation. Bond takes it, scooting his chair closer so that their knees brush and he can kiss the other man. His foot hits something and knocks it over with a clatter. Ice cubes scatter across the concrete.

"Well there goes the champagne," Q says cheerfully, and leans over to pick up the bottle. It's a cheap brand from Tesco, definitely not the finest Parisian beverage that Q deserves. But Bond knows that Q's trying, because he's smiling and it's still a touch sad, but mostly geniuniely happy. Bond scoops him up by the middle and pulls him onto his lap. Q laughs for what must be the first time in ages and turns to straddle Bond and put his arms round his shoulders.

"I love you," Bond says, and means it. It's not because they're running out of time, but because time can somehow feel infinite instead of limited when they are together. Q kisses at the wound on his brow. "And I'm taking you to Paris."

"Promises, promises," Q laughs.

They drink champagne straight from the bottle and kiss until sunrise and it may not be Paris, but it's theirs, and that's something.


	7. Interlude III

* * *

 

 

Interlude

 

* * *

 

Neither of them takes leave, but they end up in a lull at MI6 that allows Q to work from home and Bond to do nothing but try to distract him. They don't talk about it-the inevitable future-even though the thought of it lingers at the back of their minds constantly. But Bond can tell that Q is trying because he's smiling a bit more without his usual restraint, and Bond thinks that if they can forget, even just for a moment, then their happiness might just last.

Money is no object, so Bond makes reservations at the most expensive restaurants and hotels, because Q deserves the finer things-outstanding food, beautiful scenery, bedsheets made from the highest thread count-in life, after everything he's been through. So Bond gets Q fitted for a nice suit and takes him to eat at Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester and then books a suite for a weekend at Claridge's in Mayfair. The moment they walk through the door, Q is not marvelling at the beautiful space or the silken luxuries or the piano set under a window that looks out at the heart of the city. Instead, he just grins and pulls Bond toward the massive king-sized bed. They kick off their shoes and jump on the bed like children, and Bond really has never seen Q look happier, even after they spend the rest of the night making love on every possible surface.

It is only after that weekend-when Bond is trying to find ways to recreate the happiness in Q's expression-that he discovers that the lavishness is not necessary. Bond should have known that from the beginning, that Q's tastes are simple: Q likes food regardless of who cooked it, three Michelin stars or no, and he does not need a suite in Mayfair to make love to Bond like it's going out of trend.

Bond then tries to think of more meaningful ways for them to spend their free time. They take walks every morning and go to museums when they can-the National Gallery, the Victoria and Albert, the Royal Botanic Gardens-and they make it a habit to dance together on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, whether at the studio down the street from them or in the comfort of their own living room. Every day holds something to look forward to, and Bond feels complete in a way that he has never felt, made more perfect by Q's smile and the hands and lips on him at night. A year ago, Bond would not have thought this sort of happiness possible, and so he tries not to think about the end and the fact that there are no calendars or clocks in their flat anymore because _measuring_ it is simply unbearable.

"That was a disaster," Q says, as they sit on the couch and eat takeaway, trying to ignore the smell of burnt bolognese. Bond thinks about revising the idea that they try experimenting in the kitchen more often.

"Not a disaster until we have to call the fire department," Bond replies, and steals a dumpling from Q's plate.

"There's always next time," Q says, and spars with Bond using his chopsticks. Bond lets him win, lets him take a piece of sweet and sour chicken and pineapple without a fuss, and watches him munch away happily on it. He does not realise that he is staring until Q raises an eyebrow at him and asks: "What?"

"Nothing," Bond says.

They clean up a bit and watch a film. Bond holds Q's feet in his lap while the other man works on something on his computer. It is not until later, when they are preparing for bed, that Bond speaks what's on his mind.

"There has to be a way," he says, and Q stops halfway through the process of pulling back the duvet. Grey eyes regard him with understanding, and his expression softens a bit as he slides between the sheets.

"I should never have told you," Q replies.

"It was eating you up," Bond says, as he joins his lover in bed.

"I shouldn't have lost control like that," Q answers, shaking his head against the pillow. "I should know better by now to not let it get to me. There's nothing that can be done."

"There has to be something," Bond says, a touch desperate, as Q removes his glasses and puts them on the bedside.

"Everything in life and death is cyclical. There's no cheating it," Q tells him, and takes Bond's hand. He squeezes it gently. "Believe me, I've tried."

Bond does not want to know what that entails, how much more pain Q has had to endure, so instead he asks:

"What can we do?"

"There's nothing we can do...except what we're doing. Being happy while we can."

"No, I refuse to accept it."

Q kisses him softly, sadly, and Bond never wants to let him go.

"It's alright," Q tells him.

"It's not alright. It's not going to be alright, how can you say that?" Bond replies, because it's not going to be alright, not when he gets the easy way out. He gets to die and forget Q will be left alone to mourn and wait and remember.

"It's never really goodbye."

Bond feels it resonate true inside of him, but the thought of leaving Q is equally painful. He thinks back to the first night they spent together, and the way he said _I'm going to hurt you_ and the look in Q's eyes when he answered _I know_.

Q knew all along how it would end.

"How can you...again and again...all of this pain…?" Bond whispers, and for one treacherous moment, wishes that he was not in love, just so that he would not have to hurt like this.

"It never gets easier, saying goodbye to you," Q confides in him. "But I'd rather love and lose you than never have met you at all."

Bond closes his eyes, because looking at Q is nothing but agony, and he hates the universe for being so unfair. He always believed that he chose his own path, but it had always been an illusion. All roads led to this-to Q-where they would meet only briefly before losing one another to time, over and over again.

"James."

"We have to change it."

"I wish...I wish we could," Q says, and for the first time in the conversation, his voice breaks. Bond opens his eyes and sees that he is crying, still trying to smile. "Just once...I want to grow old with you."

"Then we'll grow old together."

"James…"

"No, we will," Bond says, and pulls Q close to him, wrapping their bodies in the warmth and safety of their bedsheets. It might be a dream, but Bond is not about to say that. Instead, he pets at Q's hair and asks: "Where do you want to go?"

"Wherever you are."

"If you could live anywhere-"

"It doesn't matter, so long as you're there."

Bond slides his hands under the hem of Q's nightshirt, and the man against his chest hums in approval.

"Where do you think is the most beautiful place on Earth?"

"This bed, because you're in it."

"Now you're just being a brat."

Q laughs and moulds himself against Bond. Their heartbeats and breaths are one and the same.

"I loved Italy," Q says, after a moment.

"Italy?" Bond repeats. He did not take Q for favouring sunshine and the Mediterranean.

"Yes," Q answers, and nuzzles Bond's neck. "Don't get me wrong, Greece was wonderful, too, and I'll always consider it to be _home_ , but...Italy… I've never been so inspired by a place. Must have been the Renaissance."

"How was that?" Bond asks, round a laugh.

"Enlightening," Q says, and sighs. "Romantic."

"Tell me more," Bond says, and slides his hands beneath the waistband of Q's track bottoms to cup his arse.

"You were an artist," Q tells him, as he moves his hips against Bond's. "You painted me once, you know."

"Did I?" Bond asks, letting his head fall back as Q kisses his way up the column of his throat.

"Mm, yes. A nude portrait. Not quite as scandalous as it sounds, though, everyone was doing it," Q replies, and Bond's breath stutters a bit when Q sucks a mark just under his jaw.

"Now that's something I'd like to see," Bond murmurs, sliding his hands round to rest at Q's hips as the other man begins to undress him. "But should I be jealous? That you're hanging in a gallery somewhere for everyone to see?"

Q pauses momentarily and there is an expression on his face that Bond has never seen, but then he smiles and leans down to kiss Bond on the mouth.

"You don't have to worry about that," he says.

They make love with all the lights on. Above him, Q is breathtaking, but his eyes are somewhere else entirely. Bond places his hands on Q's hips to still him.

"Q," Bond says, letting his hand's move up and then down Q's thighs. Q is barely hard and Bond feels himself flagging in response. He caresses Q's sides, thumbs sliding up over the front of his ribs and asks: "What's wrong?"

"There was a fire," Q replies and closes his eyes. That tells Bond everything he needs to know. He takes Q's hand in his and kisses his palm, keeping his gaze fixed on Q until he composes himself and looks back at Bond. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Bond tells him, and manoeuvres Q until they are lying side by side. They've both lost their arousal, but that does not matter. Bond pulls Q close, until the other man is a warm line against his body.

"I sometimes wish...I didn't remember…" Q murmurs, kissing at the mark on Bond's chest. "That I didn't know…Is that horrible of me?"

"No," Bond says and kisses his hair. "Maybe in one life, you won't, and you'll get to fall in love again."

"Do you think?" Q asks, and he sounds so young and hopeful that Bond cannot help but lie to him.

"I think so," Bond says.

Q rests his palm over Bond's heart and taps his finger in time with his heartbeat.

"Tell me again," he says, just when the silence begins to lull. Bond does not have to ask what he means.

"We'll grow old together," Bond tells him, taking Q's hand in his. "We have all the time in the world."

Their sheets are skin warm, comforting, like the thrum of traffic outside, the steady beating of their hearts, Q's fingers curled around his own. Bond wants to stay like this indefinitely, permanently, because it feels like nothing can touch them, not even Fate.

"We have nothing but time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UnBETA'd because I'm way too exhausted right now... Please let me know if you find any errors. Love xx


	8. Part IV

 

_"Love is simply the name for the desire and pursuit of the whole."_

  
_  
_-Plato, _The Symposium_

* * *

Part IV, Act I

* * *

It happens on a Monday.

Bond wakes to the sound of Q answering his phone quietly, followed by the gentle pull of a warm body away from his. He tries to keep Q beside him, but the other man huffs out a laugh and kisses the top of his head and says that he has to get ready for work. As much as Bond wants him to stay, he knows that they both have jobs to get back to, and reluctantly releases him. Bond does not get up right away and instead listens to the sound of Q going through his morning routine: using the toilet, showering, brushing his teeth, dressing with a rustle of fabric, collecting his things from the bedside. Bond hears him making tea, catches the soft murmuring of the tail end of the morning news. Then Q's footsteps come back to the bedroom and Bond smells coffee. Q sets a mug down on his bedside table and then leans over him again.

"I'll see you later," Q says, and kisses him without any regard to Bond's morning breath; he tastes like tea and mint. "I love you."

And then he's gone. Bond can still smell his aftershave and the scent of him on the sheets and pillows. He scoots over until he is on Q's side of the bed, as if he can find the last vestiges of his warmth and thinks that he has never been so happy.

_Please_ he prays, _please let this last. Don't make him suffer anymore. Let me keep my promise. Let us grow old together. Let us grow old together again and again for eternity._

He lies in the stillness for some time after that, wishing that wishes and prayers and dreams were real, because then he and Q might have a chance. But Bond knows it is childish, just like lounging about in bed all day, so he gets up. After he is showered and dressed, Bond takes up the now-cold cup of coffee and brings it with him into the kitchen. He is just about to heat up his drink when a blinding pain erupts in his chest. It's white hot and searing and so sudden that Bond starts and drops his mug. Bond does not know how to describe it, because it's worse than anything he's felt before, even being shot off a moving train and plummeting a hundred feet into thrashing water. The pain makes it hard to breathe, to see, and his vision goes dark as if someone just turned out the lights. He is vaguely aware that his knees give out and that he's on the floor, but Bond is in far too much agony to even register that there are shards of porcelain embedding themselves into his knees. The pain pulses again-a wave that expands outward from his heart like the shockwave from an epicenter of an earthquake, a bomb drop-and Bond grips at the front of his shirt, wondering if this is how it ends: instead of dying by the hands of a terrorist organisation or shot off the grid by MI6 itself, he's going to die in his own kitchen as the result of a heart attack.

There is one more stab, directly in his sternum, and then the pain stops entirely.

In the wake of it, Bond can hear his heart hammering and the rush of blood in his ears. His chest aches, but he can finally breathe and see again. Dimly, Bond recognises that his knees definitely hurt and that there's a copper tang in his mouth, most likely the result of an unconscious bite down on his tongue. His trousers are soaked with cold coffee and he's trembling like he's coming down off an adrenaline high. But Bond knows that had not been adrenaline, that had been fear, and terrible pain. He rubs at his chest, wondering why it feels like his heart has been torn to shreds.

Stiffly, Bond gets up and cleans the mess. Then he strips out of his ruined clothes goes into the bathroom to pick pieces of porcelain out of his hands and knees and shins. His chest aches as he does this and Bond wonders if he should go to Medical to get checked out, just to be safe. He is just pulling on a clean pair of trousers when his mobile rings. He knows the number and answers on the third trill.

"Good morning, Miss Moneypenny," he answers.

"Bond," she says, and her voice wavers in a way that makes the hairs on the back of Bond's neck stand up on end.

"What's happened?" he asks, hurriedly pulling on a shirt as he leaves the bedroom. She's uncharacteristically silent, and Bond feels something like dread creeping up on him. "Eve."

"It's… Q," she says, and Bond stops, swears the entire world _stops_ because it sounds like she is trying not to cry. She breathes audibly, but Bond cannot, and he's gripping his mobile so tightly he thinks he might break it.

"What's happened?" he asks again, through a closing throat and an overwhelming sense of despair.

"There was an accident," Eve replies. "A car jumped the kerb and-" and Bond does not hear the rest. He is looking about the flat and seeing Q everywhere-the empty mug sitting at the edge of the sink, his pair of shoes by the door, a half-read book on the sofa table-and thinking that it's impossible, because _they were supposed to have more time_.

"No," Bond says. Q just left not even twenty minutes ago. He kissed Bond goodbye and told him he loved him. That _could not be it_. Bond does not realise he's crying and not breathing until he's gasping for air. Q was just there and Bond had let him go. He hadn't even opened his eyes to look at Q one last time. "No, no, no…"

"Bond, listen to me," Eve says, and her voice is stronger, strong enough that Bond latches onto it from deep within his own head. "They've brought him to St. Bart's. He's in surgery now."

"Surgery," Bond repeats, and something like hope warms in his hollow chest. Surgery means _not dead_ but it can also mean _not dead yet_.

"It's bad," Eve replies softly, and Bond hears her swallow as she tries to steady herself, "but they're doing all they can."

"I need to… please, make sure…" Bond says, and he's not sure if the words make sense, but Eve assuages his fears.

"You're cleared." she tells him. "Go."

And he does.

* * *

 

Part IV, Act II

* * *

Bond waits for hours in a tiny room that smells like antiseptic. There is no one else there, which is a relief, and it allows him to pace and pull at his hair and pray to any and all Gods that will listen to save Q, to give them more time. But there are no answers, just silence, and Bond sits down in an uncomfortable plastic chair and tries to remember how to breathe.

It is the middle of the afternoon when someone finally comes, calls him a name that Bond recognises only vaguely, and leads him to a hospital room in the ICU. Q is there, hooked up to so many machines that Bond does not know where he begins and they end. The monitors show a steady heartbeat, but a machine is breathing for him. The bits of skin that Bond can see between the wires are covered in white gauze bandages. His left arm is in a severe contraption that holds his shoulder in place.

The doctor is speaking, but Bond barely hears words beyond _multiple resuscitations_ because he is too busy looking at Q and wishing it was him instead.

"Will it hurt if I touch him?" Bond asks, once the doctor takes a breath.

"No, he's heavily sedated," he answers, and Bond immediately reaches for Q's hand. It is cold and lifeless, stabbed in every vein with needles and plastic tubing.

"Is he going to wake up?" Bond asks.

There is silence that is so deep it's deafening.

"Yes, but it will take time."

_We have nothing but time_.

* * *

 

Part IV, Act III

* * *

Q remains in the ICU for a few days before being transferred to the High Dependency Unit, which is a lot quieter and a bit more comfortable, but still just as depressing as upstairs. Bond watches as Q is unhooked from machines, then attached to new ones. Some of the bandages come off, but Q does not wake up, even as the bruises begin to fade and the cuts start to heal.

Bond rarely leaves and no one makes him.

The longest he is gone is a half an hour to an hour at a time. Mostly it is enough time to go home, take a shower, change his clothes, and come back. Bond does not care much for eating; everything that he tries to consume tastes like paper and ash in his mouth. The nurses and medical staff cast him concerned glances when they enter. Sometimes they try for conversation-they tell Bond that Q's vitals are strong, that he's making headway everyday-but most of the time, they hurry through their rounds without a word. Bond can only imagine how he must look; if it is anything like what he feels, he understands their desire to be as far from him as quickly as possible.

He ignores his mobile over the course of the week. When it rings, he does not even look at it or react, caring fuck all about what MI6 might do to him if they decided to pursue him. Moneypenny comes by once, carrying flowers, but when she sees Q, she looks so horrified that Bond asks her to leave. He cannot bear to see the look on her face, because it's telling him what he does not want to accept and will not ever accept.

The phone calls stop after that, and Bond is left in a silence punctuated by the rhythmic sound of the heart monitor and the gentle fall of rain against the window. He tries to talk to Q, but words fail him, and he can only hold onto his hand to show him that he's there and he's not leaving because _we're going to grow old together_.

"You should read to him."

It is raining again; Bond had been dozing in the uncomfortable chair just to the right of Q's bed. He wakes at the words and sees one of the nurses there. She's the one that always tries for conversation, the one who always smiles. She has red hair. He thinks her name is Holly.

"What?" Bond asks, voice gravelly with sleep.

"You should read to him," she says, as she replaces Q's saline bag. "I read in medical school that it helps sometimes. Besides, I'm sure he'd like to hear your voice."

"Yeah, I'll try that," Bond replies.

That afternoon, they transfer Q to a general ward that is near enough to the HCU should he need the medical attention. It is a private room, which is nice. It also has a window and Bond opens it just a crack every day even though he is not supposed to. But Bond knows that Q likes the smell of rain and can only hope that he is not too far away to enjoy it.

He brings _The Symposium_ from home and reads from it everyday.

If Bond starts first thing in the morning, he can usually finish it by evening, even if he lingers on the lines that he knows Q loves the most. He reads until his throat hurts and then keeps reading and once all the words are spoken, he lays his head on the bed next to Q's hand and begs him wake up.

It's two Monday mornings after the accident that Q does.

Bond sees his lashes flutter and thinks it's just his imagination, but then Q's eyes open and his heart rate jumps on the monitor. Springing up from his seat, Bond presses the button to call a nurse and leans over Q so that he is directly in his line of sight. The blood vessels in Q's right eye are damaged and bloody and the grey of both irises is as dark as brackish water. Bond is not sure if Q sees him or not, because he starts gagging around the tube down his throat and begins thrashing weakly, clawing at his throat with his functioning hand. As gently as possible, Bond restrains him so that he does not hurt himself. He wants to tell Q that it's alright, but two nurses push him aside before he can get a word out. They banish him from the room as they attend to Q, leaving Bond to pace up and down the corridor outside for what seems like hours.

When they allow him inside, Q is awake and breathing on his own for the first time in weeks. He looks pale and tired and like he might be in pain, but he sees Bond and smiles.

And Bond believes everything may be okay.

* * *

 

Part IV, Act IV

* * *

The weeks that follow are hard ones.

Q has another surgery for the damage done to his right leg and when he wakes, he has two pins in his knee and cannot keep food down for a few days. That same week, the doctors take Q off his pain medication to give him a weaker dose and Bond can see the misery his lover tries to hide. He barely eats because of the discomfort, and Bond tries to distract him with books and crap telly so that Q does not think about it. But between Q's leg and his sprained shoulder, Bond knows he can only do so much. He sits quietly through Q's worst spells, holding onto his hand the entire time, even when Q asks him to leave. Bond knows he does not mean it, he just does not want anyone to see him like this.

"I meant what I said, Q," he tells him. "You don't have to be lonely anymore."

The hand in his is weak, but present, and after Bond utters the words, Q's grip never wavers in his.

* * *

Part IV, Act V

* * *

"I hate this bloody cane," Q mumbles, two months later.

"It's just for a little while," Bond assures him.

"I can barely keep up with you," he says, and Bond slows his pace for the second time since their morning walk. The strain of the exercise is evident and Bond wants nothing more than to put an end to things right that moment and carry Q back to the flat. But the doctor said that Q will make a full recovery so long as he does his exercises, despite the pain. The first two weeks of physical therapy are the worst-Bond knows that first hand-but Q is doing well and moving about, perhaps more out of boredom than anything else. Being confined to bed rest for weeks was on par with torture for someone like Q, like Bond, and getting up is relief, even if it is accompanied with some soreness.

"Is that better?" he asks.

Q sighs in gratitude and takes smaller, less stressful steps.

"Sorry," he says. "Now this will take forever."

"I don't mind," Bond tells him, because he does not mind. Q smiles and hooks his arm around Bond's as he limps along.

"Maybe I should modify it. Throw some flames on the sides. So it looks like I'm going faster."

Bond laughs.

"Just build yourself a jet pack and get it over with."

"You say this sarcastically now, but I've got a lot of down time in my future and plenty of resources to make a jet pack."

"Keep it at the lab, at least. You know what jet fuel can do to the carpet."

"Careful, James, your domesticity is shining through," Q teases him, and Bond leans over to kiss his temple.

"There are worse things," he says, because there are.

They have not talked about it, too focused on other things, but they still won't buy a calendar for the kitchen or replace the broken alarm clock in the bedroom. Neither of them want to go back to measuring time again, not like that, and as Q heals and the seasons begin to change, Bond is just grateful that they are both alive. It does not take long before Q is at work, but it is a long time before Q can walk without the assistance of a cane and even longer before he can dance again. Bond is reluctant to go back into the field, even after Q has recovered almost completely from the accident.

"You love it," Q tells him.

"But I love you more," Bond replies.

Q touches his face and smiles.

"I never asked you to choose. You can have both, you know," he says.

"I could die," Bond answers, leaning down to rest his forehead gently against Q's shoulder. "I would leave you alone."

"You could also get struck by a car on your way to the grocery here in London," Q replies, with something like laughter in his voice as moves his arms round Bond's neck. "Fate's already decided everything. We can't try to change things that our out of our control."

"You're right," Bond says.

That afternoon, he puts in his letter of resignation from MI6.

"Why would you…?" Q asks, that night, when he returns home, after Bond knows he has finally heard. The weather is trying for summer, but the nights are still a bit cold. Despite this, Bond has opened all the windows and he has a record on, with a singer crooning about love. Bond crosses the room to him and kisses him fully.

"Because if I only have one day left on earth, I want it to be with you."

Q smiles without any mystery or sadness or pain and a laugh bubbles from his chest as he winds his arms round Bond's neck.

"And you said _I'm_ a romantic."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half BETA'd because weather is on the way and I am probably going to lose power. Epilogue to be posted shortly. Please, as always, let me know if you find any glaring errors. You're all wonderful xx


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the finished product, unBETA'd just so I can finally eat dinner and catch Sherlock. Please let me know if you see anything that needs fixed xx

 

Epilogue Part I

* * *

The summer comes and goes, and then the fall lingers a bit before winter. Bond might have quit MI6, but he's there more often than not, taking on projects and training seminars and downright loving the fact that he can scare the piss out of new recruits with just a glare. Q tells him that it's sadistic, but does not make him stop, and even lets Bond test out new weapons for him from time to time. But Bond knows that Q really loves him when he hands him the keys to a Bugatti and the two of them go out into the country for a weekend to drive too fast and shoot small missiles at random targets.

"And here I thought retirement would be boring," Bond says, one night when they are dressing to go to the theatre. Moneypenny had somehow finagled tickets to the sold out show and handed them to Bond with a sly smile.

"Do you really think I would let be you bored?" Q replies, frowning at his reflection as he tries to straighten his bow tie. "That's just asking for trouble."

"You never did make me an exploding pen," Bond points out, reaching round Q to fix his tie.

"You really are never going to stop asking, are you?" he sighs.

Bond kisses him in reply and hurries him along so that they can catch their cab. The seats are quite good and the production much more enjoyable than Bond anticipated, maybe even more so because Q truly enjoys himself. They forgo drinks afterward so that they can go home, where they methodically remove one another's clothing and crawl into bed. Laid out beneath him, Q is a pale expanse of canvas. The flowers on his side are still vibrant, but now there are also scars: one a long line along his forearm, another curved around the left wing of his shoulder, the gnarly gash in Q's right knee. Bond kisses them all, as if his lips will be enough to erase them from Q's skin. Even though he has healed completely, Bond is still very careful with Q, like he might break if Bond is too rough. But Q pulls at his hair and grips at his shoulders hard enough to leave imprints and all but _begs_ him to be less conscientious, so Bond gives him what he wants. After they clean up, they lie in the darkness and breathe in tandem and listen to the sound of London settling down outside their window. Bond has his arm round Q's waist, his chest pressed to the other man's back, and he thinks that the only way they can possibly be closer is if they become one being.

He closes his eyes and thinks about how all humans were one entity before Zeus separated them into two, and how everyone is actually one half of one whole. And that is when Q slides his hand over Bond's as if he knows what he's thinking.

"What do you think changed?" Bond asks

"I don't know," Q replies.

Bond can never stop being amazed that Q always knows what he is talking about, even without context.

"What do you think will happen?"

"No idea."

Bond nuzzles Q's hair.

"But I think it's going to be okay," Q says.

"Yeah?" Bond asks.

"Yeah," Q murmurs, and twines their fingers together.

Bond is not sure when he falls asleep, but when he wakes in the morning, he feels rested and unanxious for the first time in a long time. It is snowing lightly outside. The house smells like coffee and Q's aftershave and it's quiet save for the low volume of the telly in the living room and bubbling of the kettle for tea. The domesticity should kill Bond, but it's nice-wonderful, even-and he knows that he would not trade it for anything, not even for the excitement of his old life in international espionage.

He yawns, runs a hand through his hair, and that's when he notices it around his left ring finger.

"Good morning."

Bond looks up and sees Q standing in the doorway. He's showered and dressed, but not for work, and he's smiling at Bond, at the silver band adorning his finger.

"What's this?" Bond asks, holding up his hand.

"Looks like a ring," Q replies, and he's fighting a grin as he comes closer.

"I can see it's a ring," Bond answers, and he cannot keep the smile from his face, so wide that he feels it pulling at his cheeks.

"Well what do you think?" Q asks, one knee, then the other on the bed next to Bond.

"You didn't ask," Bond replies, as Q moves to straddle him. He's still all lines and angles, but he's beautiful and _Bond's_.

"I didn't want to give you the chance to say no," Q says, moving his arms round Bond's shoulders.

"Do you think I _could_?" Bond asks.

"I don't know," Q replies, and smiles without any secrets. His eyes are brilliantly green. "Everything is different now."

"Not _so_ different," Bond says, and kisses him. Q does not pull away, even though Bond realises a moment too late that he probably has terrible morning breath.

"Is that a _yes_?" Q asks, when they part.

"Yes," Bond says. "Yes, now, and the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that."

"Well, what about the fourth time from now?"

"Hmmm...not sure. Times change, you know, so let's just leave that at a _maybe_."

Q pushes him backwards onto the bed playfully.

"Well _maybe_ you'll change your mind when you see what's under your pillow."

Bond looks at Q, who raises his eyebrow at him in challenge. He slides his hand beneath the pillow and pulls out a white envelope. Inside are two first class train tickets to Paris.

"So now what do you have to say?" Q asks, and lies down on top of him. He smells like bergamot. Bond pulls him close, nearly crushing Q against his chest.

"Yes," Bond murmurs in his hair. "Yes now, and forever."

"I'm holding you to it," Q warns him.

"Good."

* * *

 

Epilogue Part II

* * *

Q falls back with a sigh onto the massive expanse of bed and smiles so brightly that Bond thinks it rivals the sun. He follows suit, collapsing into the smooth sheets next to Q. They are in Paris and it's New Year's Eve. They can see the Eiffel Tower from their suite, illuminated by bright lights in the distance. The city is buzzing with life and excitement for a new year, new beginnings, and Bond can feel it like a heartbeat around them. Q curls a leg around Bond's as he leans over him to reach for the champagne.

"What was different?" Bond asks.

"Well, certainly that last position. I didn't know I could be quite so flexible," Q replies, handing him a flute of champagne, which Bond almost drops onto the sheets. "Must have been all that yoga I did during physical therapy."

Bond laughs before he can stop himself, and Q joins in almost immediately.

"You know what I mean," Bond says, once they both calm down.

"Of course I do," Q replies, setting his empty glass on the bedside table before lying down on top of Bond in a comfortable sprawl.

"So what do you think?" Bond asks, placing his beverage next to Q's. He idly pets at Q's hair as the other man trails his fingers down over Bond's collarbone, over the mark on his chest. Q's wedding band is skin warm when it smooths along his pectoral. Bond takes Q's hand in his and kisses at the ring, which matches the silver loop around his own finger.

"Well, I might have an idea," Q answers.

"Oh?"

"I think...we messed up the pattern somehow."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the cycle was always the same: we would meet and then within less than a year's time, you would die," Q explains, and looks sad, but only for a moment. "But this time, we met, and within less than a year's time, _I_ did."

Bond drags his fingers through a stubborn knot in Q's hair, remembering how close he was to losing Q all those months ago.

"The doctor said I died," Q continues.

"You did," Bond replies. "I felt it."

"What?"

"I felt it."

They lie there in silence for some time.

"You're sure?" Q asks quietly.

"Remember, you once told me that it hurt...hurt so badly it was like being ripped in half. I thought that I was dying…" Bond answers.

"Yes," Q says softly. "That's what it's like."

"So maybe... because your heart stopped before mine…it might be okay."

"Maybe."

Q sighs against Bond's chest.

"So this is what it's like, then?" he asks.

"What what's like?" Bond replies.

"Not knowing," Q clarifies.

"Yes," Bond says.

Q is quiet a long while.

"It's terrifying," he says.

"I know, but you're not alone," Bond tells him.

"No, I'm not."

They are breathing in time and their heartbeats are synchronised, like the organ of one being instead of two. Somewhere, a clock strikes midnight and there are fireworks outside their window. The lights reflect off the walls in whites and pinks and reds and purples and it makes Bond think about amaranths and what they mean, what they symbolise: eternal life, undying feelings of love and commitment and understanding. _Eternity_.

It's not really a prison, Bond realises, but rather what you make of it.

People are cheering outside to 2014 while Bond thoroughly kisses Q into the new year. He can only hope that they see many more together.

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And they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been fun everyone. Thanks for your readership~  
> You can follow me on Tumblr if you like pictures of cats and Ben Whishaw -- dhampir72. tumblr. com


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